


Everything of Mine

by rei_c



Series: Everything [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blood, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mating Bond, Mating Rituals, Murder, Nogitsune Effects, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Relationship Negotiation, Road Trips, Scent Marking, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Wolf Instincts, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14932076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: "I've been sleeping a lot," Stiles says. "I'm not eating. I don't have any energy. My mind isn't working as fast as it used to. I feel run down. Breathing hurts, sometimes. My hair's started to fall out. My muscles spasm. And before you ask: yes, they've run tests. I went to the hospital over in the Valley and they checked everything -- ruled out everything. The most they can come up with is Chronic Fatigue Syndrome but I don't fit all of those symptoms and --."He stops there, looks down, away from Peter's eyes. "What?" Peter asks, gently.It takes a moment for Stiles to steel himself, to meet Peter's gaze, to say, "I know what it is. Why I'm sick, I mean.""Please, Stiles," Peter says. "Tell me."orWhen the nogitsune and Stiles split, their bodies got mixed up and torn apart, leaving Stiles to inhabit a completely magical construct. He needs an anchor to the physical world in order to survive and when he can't wait any longer, he goes to Peter Hale.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ravurian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravurian/gifts).



"I'm dying."

Peter doesn't react, not initially. He's heard those words come out of Stiles' mouth many times; it's one of Stiles' favourite complaints. He whines it -- a lot, actually -- when they're stuck in research binges until the hour crosses over from too late to too early. He breathes it out in the mornings when the coffee runs out before he gets to it and groans it after punishing training sessions when Derek gets in one of his moods. Peter even saw Stiles very dramatically act out Hamlet's death scene once when Kira finished the last of the Doritos, ending with a drawn out wail announcing his end, clutching the empty bag to his chest and falling to the ground after tripping over the coffee table.

That's why it takes Peter a second to realise that Stiles' heart didn't skip a beat this time. It didn't even flutter.

He whirls around, runs his eyes over Stiles' face and body. He's still pale, far too pale, from the possession, hasn't slept enough to start erasing those raccoon circles from under his eyes -- though didn't Scott say that Stiles has been sleeping fourteen hours a night the past week? And hasn't he heard Lydia chastising Stiles for falling asleep in class more than once?

Stiles looks skinnier, too, as if he hasn't had a full meal in a while, much less three-a-day. The nogitsune probably wasn't concerned about feeding Stiles more than intangible pain and chaos, ran Stiles down to skin and bone, but he's been free of the monster for six weeks; he shouldn't look as if a gentle breeze might blow him over. Peter wonders, idly, if it's worse than it looks; the clothes Stiles chooses to wear hide a multitude of sins -- even though they're a sin or two of their own.

More than anything, he seems tired. Exhausted is probably closer to the truth, as if collapse is just a second away. The implacable will keeping Stiles upright has also taken a hit, and that has Peter terrified now that he realises. Stiles has always been more passion than anything, carried along by whatever desire he feels at any given moment, letting that hunger propel him in every direction. To see it now, just as run down and flickering as the body it's housed in --

Peter crosses the room in ten steps, sweeps Stiles into his arms, and forces down the lupine whine when Stiles gives into the bridal carry with a sigh of relief, rather than fighting back.

\--

He's loathe to put Stiles down but once he's tucked Stiles into bed -- Peter's bed, in Peter's townhouse, in Peter's _den_ \-- Peter fetches a cup of tea and a snack: a bowl of oatmeal, heavy with cream and sugar, dusted with cinnamon and turmeric. The smell should be enough to tempt Stiles into eating and the calories will do him good; the cream should settle his stomach and the spices will help to start cleaning the stuffy nose Stiles seems to have developed.

Peter goes back upstairs, tray in hand, and narrows his eyes when he sees Stiles lost to a sleep much deeper than should be possible, seeing as Peter's only been gone five minutes.

He sets the tray down, drinks the tea while it's still hot before he firms himself and reaches out. His fingers curl around Stiles' arm and he tries to draw the pain out enough to clear the little lines digging in around the corner of Stiles' eyes and lips.

There's nothing there. He can't grab on to anything.

Stiles always has at least a little twinge of discomfort; it's one of the hazards of being a human who runs with wolves. Leeching his pain is something that Peter has become something of an expert in, the past few months, because there's always a bruise or a cut or some kind of ache, usually more than might be expected from the way Stiles grins and flails and rambles. For Stiles not to be in any kind of pain when he walks in saying he's dying -- either something's wrong with Stiles' pain receptors or something's wrong with Peter.

Peter prods at his wolf, searches his instincts, checks his pack bonds. Nothing seems out of the ordinary -- except then he realises that Stiles' scent is gone. It's completely missing, not an ounce of it anywhere to be found, not even on Stiles' clothes. The wolf whines in loss but Peter merely narrows his eyes and sits down on the bed.

He'll have to wait until Stiles wakes up to get some answers.

\--

Stiles sleeps for nineteen hours. When he opens his eyes, he asks, "What day is it?" and seems completely unsurprised to be waking up in Peter's bed with Peter right next to him. 

"Saturday," Peter replies. He resists -- barely -- the urge to scent-mark Stiles, to demand to know what's wrong. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really," Stiles says. "But I should probably try and eat something. Do you have soup? I think I can handle soup."

Peter frowns. Stiles should not be worrying about whether it not he can handle food, especially something as simple as soup. "No," he says. "I'd offer to make some but I was only gone for five minutes yesterday to get you a snack and you passed out."

"I'll come downstairs with you," Stiles says. "You can keep me awake while you cook. It won't take long, will it? I know you generally have chicken in the house and you seem like the kind of wolf to make your own broth and freeze it for later."

"Ha ha," Peter says, though he's a little more relaxed. Stiles has the energy to tease which means he must be feeling better after his impromptu, nearly day-long nap. "You know for a fact I have broth in the freezer; you're the one who put it there."

Stiles grins, starts to maneuver his way out from under the covers. "Told you it was a good idea and see? Stiles Stilinski, correct again." He stands, wavers a little on his feet. Peter jumps up to help but Stiles shakes his head, says, "I'm not a complete invalid."

Peter bites back the growl and the instinct to ignore Stiles, pick him up despite his protests. "Let me help," he says, instead. "You should conserve your energy. Besides, I don't want you to fall down the stairs and since I've seen you do that more than once when you're completely healthy, I think it's a valid concern right now."

Stiles holds his gaze, finally says, "Okay. But I want a piggyback ride. I'm no damsel in distress or blushing bride, Peter."

Sometimes being around Stiles is an exercise in restraint.

Peter rolls his eyes, says, "Fine, you little monster." He gets up, goes around the bed, and is taken off-guard when Stiles throws his arms around Peter, presses his face to the curve of Peter's neck, leaving his own bare for Peter. Not for the first time, Peter feels a thrum inside, his wolf panting happily, at the way Stiles so easily embraces the pack instincts, the desire for touch and smell and physical reassurance. He holds Stiles tight, inhales deep, nips at the pulse point so readily offered to him, and can't smell a goddamn thing beneath Stiles' soap and laundry detergent. 

"You're going to tell me what's going on," Peter murmurs. He hasn't let go yet; Stiles hasn't, so Peter will indulge for as long as the pack human will let him. "And we're going to fix it." 

Stiles clings for long moments that turn to comfortably silent minutes. Peter can feel Stiles trembling -- Peter thinks, hopes, that it's nothing worrying, assumes it's his ADHD and the incessant need to fidget that Stiles possesses -- but Stiles is also relaxing, deeply, until he says, "M'kay, Peter. Let's go downstairs." 

Peter hefts Stiles up, holds him limpet-like to his chest, and keeps his nose to Stiles' skin as he walks them downstairs to the kitchen. 

\--

Stiles sits at the counter while Peter makes soup. Normally Stiles taps on the counter, plays with the cushions tied to the bar-stool, leans forward and makes snide comments on everything from Peter's hair to the current mess up in D.C. to shifter marriage rituals in pre-Roman Europe. Peter's used to the rambling, likes to hear the rhythm of Stiles' voice when he gets caught up in a topic he finds fascinating. Right now, though, Stiles is leaning back on the stool like it's the only thing keeping him upright. He's still, so very still, like any extraneous movement might be enough to send him shattering apart. He hasn't said a word in close to ten minutes. 

When the chicken breasts have been cooked, sliced, and dumped in the dutch oven with broth and some roughly chopped vegetables, Peter turns around, fixes his eyes on Stiles, says, "Talk, darling." 

The pet name gets a look -- just like always, which is more than half the reason Peter uses them -- but Stiles exhales a deep breath, says, "Yeah. Okay. I'm not -- yeah. So. I'm dying." 

"That's what you said yesterday," Peter says. "And your heartbeat didn't jump then or now. So you truly believe that's the case. But Stiles -- you know the pack will do whatever it takes to keep you alive. And if they decide not to, I will, even if I have to knock Scott unconscious and bare his fangs so you can take the bite for yourself."

Stiles smiles, just a little grin, one upticked corner of his mouth. "I know you would. That's why I came here." 

Peter tilts his head, asks, "Have you told anyone else?"

"Not precisely," Stiles replies. "Lydia yelled at me." Peter wishes he felt surprise but it's just resentment bubbling in his stomach. Of course Stiles would let Lydia call him on his health before choosing to bring up the subject with Peter. "And it wasn't me telling her so much as her lecturing me during lunch, so don't be offended I didn't come straight to you. I was hoping I'd have more time before -- well, more time in general."

Sometimes Peter can't believe how lucky he's been, to find someone like Stiles who knows him well enough to read his mind or his expression, maybe a combination of both. 

"What did she notice?" Peter asks. 

"I've been sleeping a lot," Stiles says. "I'm not eating. I don't have any energy. My mind isn't working as fast as it used to. I feel run down. Breathing hurts, sometimes. My hair's started to fall out. My muscles spasm. And before you ask: yes, they've run tests. I went to the hospital over in the Valley and they checked everything -- ruled out everything. The most they can come up with is Chronic Fatigue Syndrome but I don't fit all of those symptoms and --." 

He stops there, looks down, away from Peter's eyes. "What?" Peter asks, gently. 

It takes a moment for Stiles to steel himself, to meet Peter's gaze, to say, "I know what it is. Why I'm sick, I mean." 

"Please, Stiles," Peter says. "Tell me." 

"The nogitsune," Stiles says. 

Blood runs cold through Peter's body; hair stands on end. He grits his teeth, bites back his first response, then his second and third, as well. He sees, now, that the circles under Stiles' eyes are familiar, that the pale, ill sheen to his skin is as well, and for a split-second, for the time it takes to breathe, he sees the look in Stiles' eyes flicker, sees the curve of his lips tilt up into that infernally cursed smirk. 

No. Peter's imagining things. Stiles is still sitting there, watching him, with worry in his eyes and a self-deprecating, bitter overlay to his smile. 

"It left you with something?" Peter asks. "Some kind of infection, or --?"

"You were there when we split," Stiles says. Peter nods, almost against his will. He was there. He's had nightmares about it, woken up screaming to the thought of Stiles being suffocated in those bandages. He's had dreams, too, good ones where he took the nogitsune apart piece by agonising piece, inflicted all of the destruction upon the fox that it deserved, paid it back in kind for every ounce of suffering it drew out of Stiles. "He took my body. Remember? I was the one he vomited up; he took my body and gave me the new one. That's the problem."

Stiles stops there, looks like even this much conversation has tired him out so thoroughly that he might sleep another nineteen hours. Peter picks up the thread Stiles offered, skips all the questions about ownership and possession and an idle query as to whether the bodies were mirrored, scars and bruises and all, and instead asks, "Was it supporting your body with magic? And when it died, its magic died?" 

"Not quite, but close," Stiles says. "It was my choice to split us and my choice how to manifest that separation. I didn't realise that we -- anyway, not important. What's important," and he takes a deep breath, the whole of his eyes turning a brilliant white, "is that I'm a Spark." 

"A Spark," Peter says, stunned.

There's no tangible proof except for those eyes but only Sparks, out of everything supernatural, have eyes that flare white like the centre of the sun, like the hottest flame and coldest ice, a reflection of the terrible beauty and power of their magic. No spell can mimic the shining white, no one who knows of Sparks would ever dare to claim their status or attempt to recreate the utterly blinding absence of color that Stiles' eyes are gleaming right now.

Peter resists the urge to bare his throat, to crawl over to Stiles' feet and lick his ankles, to whine for the honour of Stiles threading fingers through his hair and curving down to grip the back of his neck. "Stiles, you -- you're a _Spark_?"

Stiles looks like he expected that reaction and hates it. "I created this body," he says, "and have been sustaining it for the last six weeks. I'm dying because my magic has started to sputter under the pressure." 

Six weeks. Stiles created an entire body out of magic and has been the only thing keeping it -- himself -- alive. Most mages can't even sustain a rudimentary golem for six _hours_ and Stiles has been keeping a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood body alive for six weeks. Peter's mind replays that over and over, adds in the terrifying fact that Stiles is powerful enough to create a body that even modern medicine can't tell isn't trueborn. 

But not powerful enough to sustain it forever, apparently. 

"What do you need?" Peter asks. 

Stiles holds his gaze and lets the radiance in his eyes fade away, until his pupils are black and his irises are that beautiful colour of brown again. Peter looks at them, searches them for hints of the Spark, only finds disappointment, the pain of shattering hope. This time Peter can't stop himself from letting out a whine, high, in the back of his throat. Stiles' expression shutters. "Right now, soup," he says, and looks down at the counter. "Just -- just soup, Peter." 

Soup. Right. Of course. 

\--

Stiles eats about half the bowl of soup, mostly just the broth and a few soft slices of carrots and mushroom, picking around the noodles and chicken. It's hard for Peter to watch; Stiles' hand shakes, which means his spoonfuls are smaller than they could be, and it takes him long, agonising moments to collect enough willpower to keep eating. Peter wants to feed Stiles, wants to help him, wants to stuff every ounce of soup down Stiles' throat that he can, until Stiles' belly bulges with the proof of Peter's ability to provide. 

When Stiles sets the spoon down and then doesn't pick it up for a good five minutes, Peter takes the bowl away, replaces it with a plate of buttered toast, cut into triangles. Stiles eyes the toast, looks up at Peter. "I'm still me," Stiles says, softly. "I didn't -- please don't treat me differently." 

"Is that why you didn't tell anyone?" Peter asks. He pauses, has to know, "Does anyone else in the pack know?" 

"No one," Stiles says, snorting at the question. "The bitten wolves wouldn't know what it means and I never felt like explaining it. And if this is the way you're reacting, how do you think Derek would?" He picks up a piece of toast, tears at the crust, has a nibble and looks as though he's forcing himself to swallow. The wolf preens even as the man stands there, concerned that Stiles is eating when he's not able to stomach it purely to satisfy Peter's instincts. "I've been studying with a mage who lives over in the Valley; she's the one who took me to the hospital." Peter opens his mouth; Stiles says, "She's breath-bound to secrecy, don't worry. I drew up the contract myself." 

Peter's never been so relieved that Stiles possesses more Machiavellian savagery than any human really should. But, then again, he's not really human, is he? 

"The nogitsune," Peter says. "Did it know? Is that why it possessed you?" 

Stiles looks relieved at the change of subject and grasps onto it firmly. "Not at first," he says. "He didn't know what I was until after he'd already chosen me. It would've been easier for him to have picked Allison, I think, because me being a Spark meant he couldn't just invade me. I needed to invite him in and once I did, once we started merging, that's when he found out. He was -- he knew a lot about Sparks, actually," Stiles says, and he looks fond, sounds it as well. Peter's heard Lydia and Derek discuss the way Stiles talks about the nogitsune, worry about how he always looks slightly crestfallen when he mentions it, sounds a little sad. "He told me about the Sparks he'd met before, taught me more than I could've ever learned otherwise. He had such wonderful stories." 

Peter lets out a strangled noise, says, " _What_? It -- you talked? It _taught_ you?" 

"We played a lot of Go," Stiles says. He sits there, stuck in memory, as Peter watches, and pulls himself out of it with a little shake of his head that nearly tips him off the stool. He sets the toast down, lets his hands drop to his lap like he has no willpower to keep them upraised, no energy left do anything with them. "Anyway. He wasn't expecting me to choose physical separation when I had the chance, and I ripped us apart so quickly that we didn't have time to sort out the bodies or what made them tick. He ended up with mine and I ended up with this one and now it's falling apart. I figure I have about three weeks left if I push it but the last few days I'll probably be in a coma."

"Is there anything we can do?" Peter asks. He wants to ask so many questions -- about the magic, about Stiles' training, about the nogitsune and the warm way Stiles talks about it -- but that's the most important one. 

Stiles looks at him. "A bite to change me won't take, not from any kind of shifter," he says. "And the pack bonds I have now are probably the only reason I'm still functioning. I think -- and the others I've reached out to agree -- that a stronger bond might stabilise me long enough to search for another option. But the options I've already found are --." He stops, shakes his head. "I'm a being of pure magic. In order to remain corporeal, I need to anchor some of that magic into the physical realm. Otherwise I'll just -- I'll still be here, I just won't -- have form." 

Peter considers that. "There's always the emissary bond," he suggests. 

Stiles shakes his head, immediately says, "I'm not going to become Scott's emissary. No. I refuse." 

Even though Peter would _love_ to follow that line of conversation, he moves on. "The mating bond? If you're talking about a stronger pack bond, that's the only one I can think of." Stiles meets his eyes, holds the gaze, and Peter -- "Oh." 

"I believe a mating bond will be enough," Stiles says. "My teacher says I won't be safe without a guardian or territory bond but that's not -- I feel like a mating bond will be enough. And," he adds, cautiously, "a mating bond with an alpha would be best." 

"Why, Stiles," Peter says, "are you proposing both marriage _and_ murder right now?" 

He wishes he could drawl that, or purr, or croon, something more fitting of the offer. Peter's off-balance, though, trying to weigh Stiles against a Spark against a potential future that's more than he ever thought he'd get, is so much more than he deserves. 

Peter's considered the idea of mating Stiles -- well, to be frank, his wolf's already decided that they should. Stiles has to have noticed Peter's interest and it intrigues Peter, probably more than it should, that Stiles never confronted him about it. Instead, Stiles has soothed the wolf's instincts, allowed Peter to provide for him, to shelter him, to comfort him. He touches Peter casually, lets Peter touch him, scent-marks and is marked in turns, an easy give-and-take that Peter attributes to pack but has always hoped might lead somewhere deeper someday. 

Peter has had reservations, though -- not many, but that makes the reasons behind his hesitation all the more important.

One of the biggest causes of his reluctance has been Stiles' relationship with Scott. For all the pragmatism Stiles possesses, he's always seemed to traipse happily behind Scott's example, to use Scott as a moral compass, a guideline, with too much fervour. Apparently that's all been a ploy, and a successful one if Peter's been taken in by it, because Sparks are generally considered to be the most amoral beings in the non-mundane world; carrying around as much magic as they do means they live outside of societal concerns and ideas, create their own ethical codes at young ages. Using someone like Scott as a reference point is a good act, a clever decision, because as idiotic as Scott can be, he is considered to be "good," for all that's worth. Stiles has escaped notice, using Scott. 

Besides Scott, there was the age factor to think about. Stiles has always been more mature than his peers but Peter was of the opinion that offering Stiles the mating option would be better after college, after Stiles has the chance to get out of this life and decides of his own free will to come back. Apparently that's a moot point. 

A Spark, though. Peter has a high opinion of himself -- deservedly so, as he's one of the most clever people he's ever met, with endless devotion to offer his pack and the willingness to preserve it at any cost. But to be worthy of mating a Spark? That's more than -- no one's worth that. 

He thought he knew Stiles, has liked to think he knows Stiles as well as Stiles knows him, but this afternoon's revelations have blown that belief apart. How much of Stiles could Peter really know without knowing the most important thing about him? How much does Stiles really trust Peter, to keep this a secret from him? And if he's kept this a secret, how much of 'Stiles' is an act to cover up, to protect, the Spark, and how much has really been the true Stiles? Are they even compatible? The wolf seems to think so. Apparently so does Stiles. 

"Am I your last hope?" Peter asks. 

"My only choice," Stiles says. Peter's flattened by the honesty and the implication of Stiles' answer. Stiles' tone changes a little, into something less than human, something filled with a blunt, deadly power that could just as much kill as it could create. It's the tone of a Spark, Peter thinks, and hearing it -- hearing it from _Stiles_ \-- has Peter hard and his wolf showing its belly. "I'll be honest, Peter: if the nogitsune was still alive, I would have gone to him first. Because my issues exist as a result of our merging, he would be the best option. My magic already knows him and we spent a lot of time in each other's heads. I'm comfortable with him. What we had together was closer than a bond could ever match. I miss him. I don't regret much in my life but I regret letting Scott and Kira kill him. But he's dead and I'm dying and you're my only choice for a mating bond." 

Peter narrows his eyes, asks, "Only choice for a _mating_ bond. You'd consider the guardian bond?" 

Stiles shrugs one shoulder, yawns immediately after. "The nemeton would accept me, I think. Or the Hale lands as a whole. But I'd rather not be bound to a place and I'd prefer to remain as human as possible. With me, with the way I am, bonding to a location would be tantamount to turning myself fae. I don't particularly care for the fae and I'd rather not become one." 

"Have you always been like this?" Peter asks. Hearing Stiles talk so openly, so dismissively, without much hint of emotion, without any pretense -- _as a Spark_ \-- is a little bit of a mindfuck. "Have I just never noticed?" 

"I've always been good at hiding," Stiles says. "I'm not a nice person, Peter. I never have been. It's been safer to keep the majority of to that myself and to fly under the radar. I probably still will in front of the others. But you deserve to know what you'd be falling into bed with."

Peter swallows at the mental image. He _wants_. "Mating doesn't mean sex," he says, has to say, has to be as honest as Stiles is being. "It can be platonic." 

"You want to fuck me," Stiles says, with one raised eyebrow and a smile on his lips. "You have ever since you smelled me in the preserve with Scott. And I'm not blind: you're an attractive man. You don't shackle your wolf; you allow its instincts to flow through you all the time, which tells me that you wouldn't try and chain me down, either. You're capable of providing for me, you're intelligent, you're viciously loyal in defense of what you consider yours. You don't waste time with idiots or liars. You do what you want, even if it goes against society's expectations. You would," and he pauses, searches for a word, settles on one and says it with a hint of disgust in his voice, "worship me as a Spark. Oh, and I like sex; I'm not going to mate with someone who would judge me for being sexually active before the mating bite or who wouldn't be able to please me after it. In the face of all of that, Peter, do you honestly think we _wouldn't_ end up sleeping together?"

"I was going to ask you," Peter admits, "in a few years, after you'd had the chance to leave." Stiles waits, looks as if he's having trouble staying awake, actually, while Peter thinks, runs through his options, plays out the possibilities, considers the ramifications. "Which alpha are we going to murder?" 

Stiles grins, a sharp-toothed, rapacious little smile that reminds Peter of the nogitsune -- except he knows that this is all Stiles. This is the Spark. 

"Deucalion," Stiles says. 

The stronger the alpha, the stronger the bond, the stronger the anchor. It makes sense. It's enough to have Peter's wolf howl in pleasure at the idea. 

"You need sleep," Peter says. "May I take you to bed?" 

"Yes," Stiles says. "Please." 

\--

Stiles sleeps ten hours and looks more tired when he wakes up than when Peter tucked him in. Peter's lying next to him, under the covers, the two of them in just their underwear. Stiles shifts as he ascends into consciousness, reaches out and flops an arm over Peter's chest. "C'me 'ere," he mutters, trying to pull Peter closer. 

Peter hauls Stiles onto his chest, lets the wolf rumble in happiness at having their soon-to-be-mate this close, skin-to-skin, in the safety and security of Peter's den. "How'd you sleep, sweetheart?" 

"Good," Stiles replies, rubbing his nose on Peter's collarbone, tongue darting out to taste Peter's sweat. "But we should get moving." 

"You said that you'd last three weeks if we pushed it," Peter says. "If we don't, how -- how long do you really have?" 

Stiles opens his eyes; Peter can feel Stiles' lashes on his skin. "Ten days, give or take a day," he says. His voice is sleep-warm but the tone is Spark-clear, full of magic and tasting, around the edges, of prophetic knowledge. Peter tilts his head, bares his throat, hearing it. The instinct to scurry out of bed, drop to his knees, beg for a scrap of Stiles' attention floods through him; all he can think is that Stiles is a Spark, he's in bed with a Spark, he's been chosen by a Spark, he's not worth this, he's just a wolf, he doesn't deserve this, surely the Spark knows it's made a mistake --. " _Stop_ ," Stiles orders. 

The command takes root at the base of Peter's stomach, ricochets up his spine with the sharp points of a thousand needles. He gasps as his breath jumps, as his heart skips a beat, as the word rattles around his mind. "Sorry," he says, whines as he tries to get out from under Stiles. "Sorry, I'm sorry, Spark; please don't banish --" 

"Alright, stop _that_ ," Stiles says. Peter's voice catches in his throat. "God, can you just -- be yourself, Peter. I want _you_ , okay, not a Spark-struck wolf. Please don't," and he stops, hides his eyes on Peter's skin. Peter feels tears, he thinks. "Please don't treat me any differently. I know you want to, I know it'll be hard, but this? This isn't what I want." 

"I'm sorry," Peter says, again, though this time his tone's more normal, stripped a little barer than usual but closer to normal. "It's going to be difficult not to react that way. You -- I know you understand what you are but the impact it has on a wolf is -- intense," he finally says, trying to find a word to cover what he's feeling but coming up short. 

Stiles shifts enough to look at him, to show Peter his tear-clumped eyelashes and the salt-lines down his cheeks. "Would it help if you scented me or make it worse?" he asks. 

Peter considers that, asks, "Do you still smell like you? Mostly like you, I mean?" Stiles nods, so Peter gathers his courage, says, "I'd like to, if you're comfortable with it." 

He's never done more with or to Stiles than Stiles has ever smelled comfortable with, not since they've been pack and Peter first began considering this fragile, fierce human for his future. Oh, he's pushed the issue a few times, especially in the beginning when the rest of the pack left them alone and Peter sat too close on the couch, or called Stiles by any number of pet names, or hand-fed Stiles, but Peter has respected Stiles from the first moment he got a whiff of his scent out in the woods, full of curiosity, love, worry, and a large, ravenous ocean of protective rage. That respect only grew as Stiles displayed bravery, loyalty, and cunning during Peter's rush for vengeance and it solidified in the moment when Stiles refused Peter's gift of the bite. 

Whether Stiles knew what he was then or not, he knew his own mind, his own desires, and was strong enough to stick to them even in the face of death. That's always been something worthy of respect. 

Stiles leans down, drags his teeth across Peter's neck, keeps his eyes fixed on Peter's face and one hand over Peter's heart as he takes the invitation Peter offered before and asserts dominance, letting loose the block on his scent at the same time. 

Peter closes his eyes, inhales deep, opens his mouth to make sure he gets the full breadth of Stiles' smell. The top layer is familiar, comfortable, has Peter's wolf purring in pleasure at the already-memorised scent of their eventual mate: cotton bolls, eucalyptus, salt, a hint of blood and lemons and tobacco. That's usually where it stops but this time it keeps expanding into moonlit holly, young yew berries and ripe apple blossoms, woven willow baskets filled with damp kudzu and carrion-cleaned bone, deepens with witch hazel and lightning, smoke and mud, a hint of rowan and oak and sugarcane, nutmeg over everything and the burnt metal-ozone of dying stars underneath. 

None of those should fit together as well as they do, and there's more there that Peter can't tease out, but he's scent-drunk, eyes rolling back as his claws come out and his fangs drop. He wraps himself in that smell, in the depth of it, the wolf in him lost to a pleasure so all-consuming that there's no possible way it could ever survive. 

Stiles starts wrapping his scent up again, taking it away layer by layer, slow and careful so as not to overwhelm Peter or leave his wolf snarling with loss. Peter appreciates it but hates it, detests the way that it eventually disappears completely, not even leaving a contact trace on his sheets, his bed, his skin. 

"It's easier to hide all of it rather than just a part," Stiles says. "Singling things out takes energy I don't have right now." 

"Ten days," Peter finally says. His voice is ragged. 

Stiles draws fingers down Peter's cheek, uses his hand to cup Peter's cheek and turn Peter into a brief, chaste kiss. "I know where Deucalion is," he murmurs, before pressing his lips to Peter's again. 

"Let's not waste time," Peter says, proud of himself for forming words when he still has the sense-memory of Stiles' scent, when Stiles is close enough to kiss. "Are you okay to travel?"

"I'll sleep in the car," Stiles says. He rolls off of Peter, lies on his back, stares up at the ceiling for a moment before he says, "You may have to help me get dressed." 

Peter sits up, looks Stiles over with a worried eye, sees the way the muscles in Stiles' left leg are jumping. Spasms, Stiles mentioned spasms yesterday, and taking down the block over his scent and then putting it back up must've been draining enough that his body's reacting. Peter's first instinct is to prostrate himself at Stiles' feet and beg for forgiveness, but he fights it back, presses his lips together to hold back the apology until they go blue. Once he's steady again, sure of himself, he opens his mouth, says, "Of course, dear-heart." 

Stiles studies him, finally lets a smile cross his lips. "All right. Let's go." 

\--


	2. Chapter 2

In the time since he's left Beacon Hills, Deucalion has apparently made his way to New Orleans. Peter isn't surprised when Stiles tells him, says as much. "It makes sense. The city has a large supernatural population but no wolf packs; the cats keep the shifters there under control. As long as Deucalion blood-swore to peace, they'd let him in and make sure others leave him alone." 

He glances over at Stiles, then reaches, adjusts the seatbelt, smoothes out the collar of Stiles' hoodie. He doesn't think before he moves, has a moment of fear when he realises what he's done, but Stiles glares at him and carries on the conversation in a clear sign that he's perfectly fine with Peter grooming him, rather than offended that a wolf would ever dare to touch a Spark uninvited. 

"The kitty council owes me a favour," Stiles tells him. 

Peter snorts, says, "The Consilium likes to kill people who disrespect them, Stiles." 

Stiles looks at him, pleased. Peter doesn't know why until Stiles says, "They'd never be able to kill a Spark." 

For just a moment, Peter forgot what Stiles is. The wolf growls, bares its teeth, but Peter calms it, tells it that this is what Stiles wants, that this is what the Spark wants, and the wolf subsides, shaking out its fur, settling back down. "They won't make you call in a favour," Peter points out, "not if their cats feel the same way my wolf does. They'll roll over and show you their bellies the second you pass into their territory." 

"You've never met these cats," Stiles says. "The favour's just a place to start but I'll probably need to magic them at some point -- which means I'll need to let the scent-block dissipate. Will you be able to handle it?" 

The Spark demands honesty but Stiles deserves it. "I don't know," he says. "You may have to -- I don't know." 

Stiles sighs. "You're asking me to order you not to react," he finally says. "And you're telling me that you'd choose to submit to that order, even though you'd also be forced to obey."

Peter nods, glances over at Stiles, reaches out and holds Stiles's hand in his, rubs his thumb along Stiles'. "I trust you," he says, direct and to the point. 

"I don't trust myself," Stiles says. He's looking out the window but Peter doesn't know if Stiles is watching the scenery fly by or if he's gazing at nothing in particular, lost in his thoughts as he tries to convince Peter of something that Peter, honestly, thinks is bullshit. "And you shouldn't either. For the longest time, I thought I was a sociopath, y'know? I can't really feel things for other people the way a normal person should. I know that Sparks don't, as a rule, but even apart from that -- Peter, I'm not a good person." 

"Neither am I," Peter says. "Do you think I would offer a mating bite to a _good person_? Do you think I would want you in my bed if you were _good_ when nothing I imagine is something a good person would enjoy?" 

He hears a tick in Stiles' heartbeat, looks, sees Stiles watching him. Peter doesn't hide the way he drinks in the sight of Stiles, eyes lingering on Stiles' mouth, the pulse point in his neck, the dip of skin at the base of Stiles' throat. Stiles' heartrate kicks up a notch, tongue darting out to licks his lips. Peter has to force himself to look away, to turn his attention back to the highway. It's been a long time since he's thought about fucking in the backseat; Peter thought he was too old for that anymore but apparently adding Stiles to the scenario makes it a million times more palatable. 

"I've had a hundred thousand fantasies about you," Peter carries on, voice low, crooning. "About the noises you'll make, about the way you'll smell, about your nails and teeth and the taste of your come. And now I have the memory of you, smelling the way you do down deep when you aren't hiding, in my bed, on top of me, practically naked. Can you blame me for not knowing if I'll be able to _control_ myself?" 

Stiles takes that in, thinks about it for long enough that Peter almost thinks he's fallen asleep. He glances over, sees Stiles staring at him with blown pupils, sees a brief appearance of sharp teeth as Stiles bites his bottom lip. Peter misses Stiles' scent but thinks that it's probably a good thing he can't smell what Stiles is feeling right now else he really wouldn't be able to control himself. Peter's own chemosignals are most likely strong enough to sink into the leather and refuse to come out. 

"After we kill Deucalion," Stiles promises. "If you want, you can cover me in his lifeblood and bite me while we fuck on his grave."

Peter nearly goes off the road. He lets go of Stiles' hand and grips the steering wheel tight, clears his mind of everything except driving, eyes fixed on the cement unspooling in front of them. He doesn't wonder where arousal and lust would fit in with the other layers of Stiles' scent, doesn't question how the fuck he's going to ever be able to keep his hands off of Stiles once he finds out how the depth of a Spark's scent might change during sex, won't allow himself to dream of entire weeks spent in bed, both of them boneless with orgasm and reeking of each other. At least, he tries. He fails miserably but he tries, ignores the way his body aches with desire.

It's like Stiles can tell that Peter's mind has spiralled into visions of their mating, of the sex they'll have once they're tied and bound, because Stiles laughs, reaches over and runs the back of his fingers across Peter's cheek. "I wish I had the energy," Stiles says. 

"Once I'm alpha," Peter says. 

"Once we kill Deucalion," Stiles agrees. "I'll just try to -- I'll think of it as an alpha order," he says. "But you're right, I think a command would be better for both of us." 

Peter hums, fights back the impulse for physical contact and asks, "Tell me about your experience with the council? Why do they owe you a favour?" before adding, quickly, "Unless you need to take a nap. We have thirty-five hours of highway driving ahead of us; it'll be smooth enough for you to sleep." 

"Later," Stiles says. "I'm good for a little bit longer, I think. Okay. The kittens. God, where to even start." 

"Have you been to New Orleans?" Peter asks. "Or did they come to California?" 

Stiles snorts, says, "You think they'd be willing to leave the boundaries of their territory when they've had to defend it so savagely for so long? No, I went there. It was a weekend trip; my mentor and I flew out to consult with a swamp witch and a water elemental who prefers the bayou to oceans or rivers. We actually didn't spend much time in the city, just flew in and spent a night in the city before we went down to Bayou Perot, spent another night on a boat in Lake Salvador, then wasted a few more hours in the Garden District before our flight back. I liked New Orleans," he adds. "There's something enthralling about a place where the supernatural and mundane worlds rub up close like that." 

Peter doesn't make any comments about 'rubbing up' even though five have fallen so quickly into his mind. "Did you negotiate entry before you arrived or wait to do it in the city?" Peter asks. 

"My mentor negotiated," Stiles says, "but they didn't believe her about me being a Spark. We were planning on checking into our hotel and meeting a couple of the council for dinner -- my mentor's on good terms with a few of them -- but we weren't fifteen minutes in our room before there was a knock on the door. The entire council came to the hotel, said they sensed something as soon as it breached their territory wards and tracked it down to us. So I showed them my eyes and let go of my scent," Stiles grins, a tinge of bloodthirsty wickedness to the expression. "Felled them right there in the hallway. All those cats, rolling around like they were high on catnip, claws out, eyes flashing, making these tiny little mewing noises." 

"I can't imagine it," Peter admits through his laughter. The mental image is amazing and the blackmail material is even better. "All nine of them?" 

Stiles chuckles, says, "Yeah, all nine of them. Of course, they played it off once I pulled everything back in, never mentioned it again, and knowing that they aren't strong enough to resist me, it turns their fur on end. My mentor and I ended up ditching them for dinner but a couple came back and joined us later when we went through the Quarter and over to the Marigny and Frenchmen. I met a lot of the shifters who live or work in the city and a lot of the other magicals wandered out as well. Ran into a few vodouisantes," he adds, casually. "Good people. Slightly unnerving."

The scene is easily set in Peter's mind: Stiles holding court at Antoine's or Galatoire's, wearing a jacket with hints of his true scent impressed on the material, enough that others would be enticed to come closer, his long fingers curved around a wine glass or picking apart crab legs, olive oil and butter slicking his lips and dripping down his chin. And then later, after dinner, Stiles with a boa around his neck, feathers sticking to his sweat, or a mask highlighting his gorgeous brown eyes, drink in one hand as creatures of magic line the streets just for a glimpse of Stiles' moonlit skin and lush mouth, the way the entire neighbourhood must have fallen silent apart from pleading when Stiles released his scent, how the wet, humid air of New Orleans would've brought a flush to his cheeks and the adulation would've angered him -- or pleased him, perhaps, if he was drunk enough; can Stiles even get drunk? -- and gotten his blood pumping, sent his smell coiling high into the air, staining the cobblestones, the bars, the wrought-iron galleries and painted shop fronts. 

"How," he starts to say, has to stop, clear his throat, try again. "How did you earn a favour?" 

Stiles looks at him as if he knows exactly what Peter's thinking. Maybe he does. The thought is not as chilling as it could be -- as it most likely should be. 

"The swamp witch's territory runs up against the council's," Stiles says. "They'd been fighting off and on for the last forty years about the boundary locations but I opened my big mouth and told them they were all being stupid and to sit down and work it out. Neither side wanted to piss off a Spark so they let me negotiate a new territory line. I set up the wards for the council and for Bee-Bee -- the witch," Stiles clarifies. "She sent me home with some supplies and the council offered me a favour when I wouldn't accept payment from them."

"You set up the wards because you felt guilty for intimidating them into coming to a decision," Peter half-says, half-asks. "Because if you weren't a Spark, they never would have met at the negotiating table. Stiles, please understand that I'm fighting all my instincts when I tell you that you're being stupid." Peter shivers under the cold wind of Stiles' glare and is relieved that Stiles doesn't have the energy or inclination right now to make Peter feel the full force of his displeasure. "What good is having all that magic if you don't use it to solve problems like this? No one else could have. Is it really a bad thing to force opposing sides to negotiate in good faith and come to a mutually satisfactory decision?" 

Stiles looks out the front window, sinks a little in his seat. "S'what my mentor told me," he grumps. "I just -- I don't like it. I don't want this power. I don't like the way everyone treats me and expects things of me and behaves around me. If I could give it back, I would." 

"But you can't," Peter says, "so you might as well put it to good use." 

"Hate you," Stiles mutters after a moment. 

The wolf whimpers but Peter grins, reaches over to pat Stiles' thigh. "No," he says, "you don't, sweetheart. Now sleep. I'll wake you up when we hit Albuquerque." 

\--

Peter drives in silence. He has satellite radio but decides to keep it off and enjoy the quiet. Stiles' breathing settles into a pattern and so does the thump-thud of cement under the tyres; Peter descends into something of a trance, cruise-control on and not much thought required. 

They're a few miles outside of Gallup when the rhythm of Stiles' breathing changes, turns wet and thick. Before Peter has time to respond, Stiles wakes up coughing, practically choking, lips turning blue. His eyes go wide as he leans forward, clutching his chest, and Peter's just managed to pull onto the shoulder and turn his hazards on before Stiles scrambles out of the car. Peter gets out without looking for other traffic, nearly gets hit as he rushes to where Stiles kneels in the dirt, wheezing for breath. 

"Tell me what's wrong," Peter begs, "please, Stiles, tell me what I can do to help, I --" 

He stops speaking, nearly stops breathing, as Stiles vomits up blood. Another wrenching hurl and more blood sprays over the cement, as well as something thicker, lung tissue or esophageal matter, Peter thinks. He goes back to the car, fetches a bottle of water, returns to Stiles' side in time to see Stiles expel one last chunk of himself, nearly collapse on his face right in the mess. 

Peter keeps Stiles upright, holds the bottle as Stiles takes a small sip, then another, slightly bigger. He rubs Stiles' back, feels so fucking useless and impotent as his future mate, as a _Spark_ , kneels there, dying right in front of him. 

"Ten days," he says, pleading. "You said ten days, Stiles, we have ten days." 

"I was maybe overestimating," Stiles says. "No, wait -- how many -- we're too far from Beacon Hills. That has to be it. The pack bonds, I can't leech the pack bonds for strength anymore. We need to get to Dallas." 

Peter doesn't ask, just carefully manhandles Stiles back into the car. They're a twelve hour drive to Dallas if they obey the speed limit but Peter can probably make it in just under seven if they only stop for gas and either skirt around or outrun any cops on patrol. He merges back onto the highway, gets the car up to one hundred miles an hour, then pushes past it, asks, "Can you hold on for seven hours?" 

"I can hold on until Wichita Falls," Stiles says. His eyes are closed as he reaches in his bag, pulls out his phone, unlocks it and starts to dial without looking. He's too pale, a few drops of blood drying on his face, and his breath still comes out wheezing as the call connects. 

" _Spark_?" A woman, sounds older, Peter's age, maybe, instantly attuned to Stiles' breathing. " _Spark, what's wrong_? _What's happening_?" 

Stiles clears his throat, ends up coughing again, though this time the blood starts dripping out of his nose instead of coming out of his mouth. He wipes the blood, idly, without thinking, on the back of his arm. "Tish, I need you to meet me in Wichita Falls in --" He pauses, opens his eyes to look at Peter. His eyes -- they've gone white again. "Peter, how long until we make it to Wichita Falls?" Peter's stuck on those eyes, the way they _radiate_ power, the clearest, most visible sign of a Spark. " _Peter_." 

"Five hours," Peter says, doing the math, pushing the gas pedal down a little more, listening as the car starts to whine, approaching one-thirty. 

" _I heard_ ," Tish says. " _Five hours. Will you -- will you and Peter be stopping_?" 

Stiles wipes at his nose again, smears the blood. "No. We're going to New Orleans; I just need the bond. Maybe on the way back." 

There's a long, weighted pause from the woman's end of the call. Finally, she says, " _I'll have Joaquín drive. We'll pick you up in Wichita Falls and lead you through to Lafayette._ " Stiles makes a noise to disagree; Tish can apparently hear it, doesn't feel any compunction begging Stiles, " _Please don't argue. We have treaties with the groups from Dallas to Lafayette, Spark. Whatever's happening sounds like a good reason to use them_." 

"Thanks, Tish," Stiles finally says. He ends the call, tosses the phone back in his bag, catches his breath. It takes long, anxious minutes as the scenery flies by, until Stiles' lungs sound clear and blood has stopped dripping out of his nostrils. 

Peter doesn't bother asking if Stiles is all right; he's very obviously not and Peter's spent enough time with Stiles to know that asking after his health, or telling him to take it easy, never has the desired effect. Instead, Peter thinks about pack bonds, the fact that Stiles has one to someone that lives in Dallas, someone that knows what Stiles is and fully believes she can call on pack treaties without anyone stopping her. "Can I ask about Tish or should I let it go until we're on our way back?" Peter asks. 

Stiles pulls his hoodie tighter; Peter reaches into the back seat, grabs a blanket and does his best to wrap Stiles up with one hand while the other is focused on the road. He punches up the heat to full-blast, ignores the way he instantly starts to sweat. Stiles turns it down a little though he does look as though he's burying himself in the hand-knitted blanket Peter's swaddled him in. 

"Letitia," he says. Peter pushes the water bottle at Stiles, makes sure Stiles takes a couple sips to clear his throat before going on. "Alpha of one of the Dallas packs and -- and she's my mentor's sister." 

Peter thinks of the contract, thinks of the way that Stiles has only ever called this person his mentor or teacher, never by name, and thinks that he knows enough now that he could guess her identity with only a few minutes' search. Nothing happens to Stiles, though, no reaction, so he asks, "Are you allowed to tell me her name or is this all just carefully pushing the boundaries of the contract?" 

Stiles gives Peter a wry smile. "Very carefully pushing the boundaries," he admits. "Just don't go looking for a name yet, okay? I can handle it when I'm at full power but not right now." 

Peter nods, returns to the story rather than think about the power it would take to casually bat away the consequences of breaking a breath-bound secrecy contract. "I'm guessing Letitia came to the Valley once?" 

"In the early days of my training," Stiles says. "I didn't have the scent-block up, wasn't expecting a shifter to suddenly come barrelling in through the door. Neither of us were expecting the bond; it formed nearly instantly. Singular bond," Stiles adds. "Quasi-emissary, as well; not enough to keep me from forming a proper emissary bond with someone else but enough of one to use an excuse. She sent out a few of her pack after that but I didn't let a pack bond emerge so it's just her and me. I feel -- connected, is a good way to describe it, to several in her pack but it's affection, not pack, and anchored on my end, not by the wolves." Stiles smiles; the expression makes a little of Peter's worry and fear die down even though Stiles doesn't exactly look happy with what he's about to say. "She's -- she's a good alpha but a little too Spark-struck. It makes her obsequious." 

Spark-struck. Of course she is, knowing what Stiles is and having met him the way she did, being forced to leave him in a city with wolves she's never met and no time to understand why Stiles would accept her departure so easily. It's a miracle she didn't press the issue of a full bond to her pack, honestly. "She didn't call you by name," Peter says. "Does she ever?" 

"No," Stiles says, and his lips move, not quite into a frown or curl but definitely something that expresses displeasure. "No one in her pack does." 

"You have a mage in the Valley as your mentor," Peter says, deciding to change the subject, "and a bond to an alpha of one of the Dallas packs -- packs that have reputations enough to scare off most other American shifters." 

"They're traditional," Stiles grumbles. "So what if they'd rather go for throats than try diplomacy. It works." 

Peter grins, can't help it. That's always been his preferred method as well. "Not to mention," he goes on, "that you've flattened every member of the Consilium, you've negotiated a treaty for a swamp witch -- and your use of the word 'witch' there is _very_ telling, Stiles, you know that -- and know at least one elemental. You said no one else in our pack knows what you are but just how well-connected are you outside of the pack?"

Stiles shifts, reaches up to trace his bottom lip with his thumb, a tell he has for when he doesn't want to be honest but knows he should. At least that hasn't changed. At least that aspect of Stiles has always been true. "I'm a Spark," he says. "I've tried to keep it under wraps, but. Word's gotten out." 

"Which means 'incredibly,'" Peter guesses. Stiles doesn't nod but he doesn't disagree, either. "Are you _sure_ you want to --" 

"Stop," Stiles says, not a command but close enough. He turns in his seat, looks right at Peter, says, "You're my choice, Peter; what does it matter if I know a lot of people? Are you saying you'd prefer to engage in self-doubt rather than start planning how to use my connections?" He pauses, eyes narrowing, says, "Wait. Wait, Peter, I -- is this what you want? You said you'd been thinking about mating but that was before you knew. Are -- have you changed your mind? Are you just agreeing to go along with this because I'm a Spark?" 

Peter wishes they had the luxury of time so that he could pull off at the next exit, find a hotel, show Stiles just how _much_ he hasn't changed his mind, how much he wants this, how he's pretty much considered Stiles his eventual mate since that night in the woods. "Nothing you could tell me," he says, slow, clear, leaning over to take Stiles' hand, "would make me change my mind. I want you, darling. I just want you to be sure _you_ haven't changed your mind." He takes a breath, glances over at Stiles, eyes gone back to normal, to that colour that Peter's never been able to name, something like honey or brandy or fossilised amber. "It's not going to be easy, being with me -- especially if we stay in Beacon Hills. I said earlier that I'm not a good person, and yes, we've spent time together, but living with me, it's -- I'm not an easy person to get along with. To love," he dares to add. 

Stiles shrugs one shoulder. "You are for me," he says. "Everyone else will have to deal with it or they'll have to go."

"You," Peter starts to say, can't finish, can't believe he's heard the words that Stiles just said correctly. 

"They say that Sparks don't feel love," Stiles says. "That we lack the ability to feel things for other people except in some hazy, disconnected sense. But Peter, there's nothing hazy or disconnected about what I feel for you. Maybe I've magicked myself into feeling it, or the way I feel isn't what others would describe as love, but. There's a reason you're my only choice." 

God, Peter _aches_ to get Stiles in his arms, to fuck him, to claim him, to leave him covered in Peter's come, watch it drip out of his ass and down his thighs, to taste it in his mouth when Peter kisses him, to peel Stiles apart and make a home for himself in Stiles' flesh. He wants to bury himself so far inside of Stiles that they're one person, no possible means of separating them -- and then he remembers that he's Stiles' only choice because his first choice is dead. 

Is that what Stiles and the nogitsune had? They were inside each other, the nogitsune in Stiles' body, Stiles in the nogitsune's mind, merging into one being, sharing the same scent. No wonder Stiles looks and sounds so pained when he talks about the nogitsune, how his tone drops below nostalgia into bruised longing. The mating bite will go a long way to form a close bond but Stiles was right -- no bond could recreate what he's already lost. 

"Peter," Stiles says, softly. "Think about it this way. I let Scott kill him," and Peter wonders, again, if Stiles is reading the tenor of his mind or if it's written all over his face, if Stiles can trace out Peter's scent and decipher its meaning or if he's left himself open enough that Stiles _knows_ him, even down to the direction of his thoughts. "But if you want Beacon Hills, then I'm willing to do whatever it takes to cement you there as alpha."

He's talking about killing Scott. Stiles is actually talking about killing _Scott_ \-- and for Peter.

"I can't stop being jealous," Peter says. 

"You said earlier that you trust me," Stiles says. "Trust me in this."

Asked like that, what else can Peter do but agree?

\--

Stiles falls back asleep, legs pulled up to his chest, blanket wrapped around him so tightly that Peter's surprised he's comfortable. He wakes up in Amarillo when Peter stops for gas, is up long enough to drink half a bottle of water and eat a handful of raisins, then goes back to sleep before Peter even merges onto the highway. He wakes up again when they cross the river just past Newlin. Peter's expecting another round of vomiting but, when he looks over, the colour on Stiles' face is coming back. Stiles shifts, murmurs something under his breath, pushes off the blanket when he's fully conscious. 

"I can feel Tish," he says. 

"We're about an hour away from Wichita Falls," Peter says. "The bond is that strong?" 

Stiles looks at the clock, raises an eyebrow, murmurs, "We're making excellent time." He tilts his head, gaze going distant, and finally says, "I think she's closer than that. Half an hour, maybe? I'll call her, tell her to stay put wherever she is." He yawns, stretches, inhales deep and breathes out long and slow and steady. "Fuck, that feels good. I didn't realise how awful I felt without an alpha bond at full strength." 

He reaches down into the footwell, gropes around for his phone; Peter looks over, lets his eyes feast on the strip of skin Stiles is baring: the small of his back and the soft, pale flesh there tempting Peter to reach over, touch. Stiles sits back up, throws a smirk in Peter's direction, and lifts up his shirt enough to scratch at his stomach, showing off the trail of hair leading down from his navel. 

"Tease," Peter says, practically growls. 

"It's only teasing if I don't plan on following through," Stiles says. "So, for now, sure. But later?" Peter bares his teeth, lip curling, and clenches the steering wheel hard enough to hear it crack. Stiles laughs, dials Letitia. 

She picks up almost instantly; Peter wonders if it even rang on her end. " _I can feel you, Spark_ ," she says. " _We're in Chillicothe_." 

"Stay there," Stiles tells her. "I can feel you, too; you're close enough. And take a deep breath, okay? Joaquín's probably subvocalising at you." A hint of a snarl, then an exaggerated deep breath. "Thank you," Stiles says. "Stop and get a milkshake while you wait. We're probably half an hour away, maybe less with the way Peter's driving."

" _You sound better_ ," Letitia says, a moment or two later, voice calmer. " _Were you -- why did you need our bond_?" 

Stiles makes a noise, tongue clicking against his teeth. It takes him a minute to answer. "Nothing's wrong with the pack," he says. His heartbeat doesn't change. "I'm just in a situation right now where I need a geographically closer bond. And you know our bond is stronger than mine to Scott's." 

Letitia might have known that but Peter didn't. It's -- it's saying a lot that Stiles is willing to expend more energy on a bond with a Dallas alpha than with his own best friend. Still, even though Stiles and Letitia share a strong bond, Peter's vindictively pleased that Stiles is keeping secrets from her.

There's no noise coming from the other side of the call, then Letitia says, " _As you say, Spark_ ," like she doesn't believe anything Stiles is saying but isn't going to call him on it, either, because he's a Spark and he's asking her to leave it alone when he'd be well within his rights to demand it. " _I talked to my sister on the drive up here_." 

Stiles goes tense, suddenly, all over and all at once. "Oh?" 

" _She told me some interesting things_ ," Letitia says. " _Things about what's been happening in the Hills. Things about the true alpha. Things about Peter Hale._ " She stops, evidently waiting for a response. Stiles doesn't say a word. " _Why are you travelling with one of the former Hale alphas instead of_ your _alpha, Spark? Does McCall know you've left California_?" 

"As far as the McCall pack is concerned, I'm sick at home," Stiles says, "and that's the way it's going to stay." His voice echoes with command, enough for Peter to bare his throat in submission without even thinking about it. He imagines, judging by the rhythm of breathing on the other end of the call, that Letitia and Joaquín have as well. "Peter and I are going to New Orleans. I don't know how long we're planning on staying but we'll make time to stop by and see you on our way back."

There's another long pause; it sounds as though Letitia's parked somewhere, turned off the car as the droning hum of the car engine disappears. " _The cats have never mixed well with foxes_ ," she finally says. Peter hears Stiles' heart skip a beat. " _Neither have wolves_." She takes a breath, asks, bluntly, " _Are you safe with Peter Hale_?" 

Stiles snorts. The tension in the car -- and on the call -- disappears. Stiles glances over at Peter, raises an eyebrow. Peter shrugs, leaves the decision up to Stiles, and can't help the small, private smile of realisation when it dawns on him that he's still enough in tune with the Spark to engage in these tiny, unspoken conversations. 

"Peter and I are going to mate," Stiles says, "so yes, I'm safe with him. Besides, he's been courting me for months. Now that I've said yes, do you really think I'm in any danger?"

" _Hale's a good choice_ ," Letitia says, sounds reluctant to admit it. " _Even when he was a kid, he would've been a good choice. Better than anyone else in his sister's pack_." 

Stiles laughs at the look on Peter's face but Peter can't find it in himself to even pretend to be offended. To know that he's worth the approval of a _Dallas_ alpha is -- stunning. "And he's only gotten better with age," Stiles says. "I might be asleep by the time we get to Chillicothe, but I'll see you on the road, all right? You'll be able to catch a glimpse of my future mate." 

Future mate and alpha, Peter wants to say, but doesn't. For some reason, Stiles chose not to say anything about why they're really going to New Orleans, about what they're planning on doing to Deucalion, about the reasons why Peter needs to become an alpha before they mate. He'll respect that choice while others are listening, ask when they aren't. 

" _I look forward to it, Spark_ ," Letitia says. " _See you soon_." 

\--

Peter spent six months in Dallas when he was younger, before the fire took everything away from him. Talia had been exploring the possibility of a treaty with a couple of the packs but didn't want to go herself, not with the rumours they'd heard about how the Texas packs organised themselves, how they conducted business. It turned out to be a wise decision. 

The three packs in Dallas -- the Triple Alliance -- are all old. Ancient might actually be a better word to describe them even though, by the time Peter stayed with them, the packs consisted predominantly of white and Hispanic-American wolves. In their legends, they claim descent from the First Nations tribes who lived in that region -- the Otomi, the Kitsai, the Wichita -- and they've kept the names of their packs in honour of those who were forcibly removed. They even worship some some of the same deities, follow most of the old traditions. They're comfortable with age and ancestry in a way that most of the other North American shifters aren't, comfortable, too, with their wolves and their instincts.

Talia always considered them primitive, never really had a good word to say about them, but even she admitted that their alphas were among some of the strongest, that their betas were fiery and independent in mundane society but perfectly behaved among the pack, that they respected other shifter packs and shared their knowledge when asked, that the majority of them could manage the full shift, even some of the pups. Peter thinks that half the reason Talia didn't respect them was because they scared her -- her, Talia Hale, alpha of the oldest pack on the west coast -- and she was always quite keen to ignore things that she didn't understand. Peter, though, liked them. He more than liked them; if he wasn't already contracted to the position of Hale pack executioner, he may have defected. He came close, that winter. 

He glances over at Stiles, can't help the fond expression when he sees Stiles dozing, forehead pressed to the window, mouth open, eyelashes fluttering. A Spark's magic is old, some say older than the universe, and connected to the deeper emotions, the more primal instincts. It's no wonder he'd feel comfort around packs who practice brutality in everything: honesty, capacity, defense, acceptance, love. It's a wonder he's lasted as long as he has around Scott and the others with their inability to accept what they are, to delve into everything they can be, to build a real pack, and not a wonder at all that Stiles would develop a near-instantaneous bond with an alpha who knows what she is and what that means. 

Peter doesn't specifically remember Letitia. He doesn't remember much from that winter, including which of the Triple Alliance packs he stayed with. After the fire, when he was in his coma, he focused what little mental energy he had on his pack, his family, on his rage. A lot of memories disappeared during that time. He's been getting them back, little by little, but faces are the last to return; he's gone through the Vault, read all the notes he left and all the journals that were stored there, and those have helped immensely, but he never wrote down descriptions or impressions, never left portraits in code. He never thought he'd need them. 

Maybe meeting Letitia -- possibly meeting her again -- will jog some more memories loose. Maybe she was one of the wolves in the hunting party that ran down the werejaguar during Peter's first week in Dallas. They brought that shifter back in pieces; the alpha gifted her mate with the jaguar's hands and a day later, wearing a necklace of fingerbones, the alpha lit the pyre to burn the rest of the corpse. Maybe she was one of the younger wolves, nearer to Peter's age, that told the pack pups bedtime stories of rituals performed and sacrifices dedicated to honour Zäna, the Old Mother, and thank Her for giving them life and Calling them to be wolves. Maybe she was that wolf with the gorgeous burnt sienna pelt, who could run faster and farther than anyone else in the pack. 

Peter's eager to see. More than that, though, he's eager to see her on their return, to match his alpha to hers and see where he stands. She'd be honest with him. She'd tell him if he was worthy of being Stiles' mate -- inasmuch as none of them are. 

"Stop thinking," Stiles mutters, turning his head, opening bleary eyes and looking at Peter. "C'n hear you, y'know." 

"My apologies, dear heart," Peter says. 

Stiles yawns, shifts, cracks his neck and lifts a hand to rub at his forehead. "How long was I asleep this time?" 

"Not long," Peter says. "Twenty minutes or so. I don't think you were entirely asleep." 

"We should be close, then," Stiles says. Peter watches as Stiles puts his hand over his chest, taps his shirt lightly. A moment later, the light inside the car gets so intense that Peter winces, nearly goes blind. "Sorry, hold on, I'll -- there," and the glare dims down to the brightness of a night light. There are -- there are _ropes_ coming out of Stiles' chest, thick-spun cables of metal and wiry braided vines and tiny woven threads, each of them glowing, at a base level, the white of Stiles' eyes, some of them tinged with other colours, all of them fading into nothing about a foot away from Stiles. 

Stiles gestures at one and Peter swallows as he sees it strengthen, pulsing to match the beat of Stiles' heart. Peter stares, finds himself hitting the rumble strips as the car drifts. He jerks the steering wheel, gets back in the middle of the lane, and then looks down again, sees the bond Stiles gestured at finding its end in Peter's chest. It's a gloriously thick wire of glowing metal, wound heavy with trembling leaves of red and green and amber all studded in salt. 

"Your bonds," Peter says, reaches up to his chest, can't feel where the end of his bond with Stiles is anchored but is -- settled, is probably the best word, for having seen it, for knowing it exists, for being able to trace it with his own eyes. 

"The easiest way for me to manifest them," Stiles says. He moves his hand and the bond with Peter fades out of sight, blends in with the others again. He touches another one, plucks it, and Peter watches as it vibrates with the echo, stretching out miles in front of the car for a split-second. It's reminiscent of Lydia, a little, her fingers dancing on threads in the air that only she can see -- and it reminds Peter that Sparks are said to be the cousins of Death, the ones who created Death and assigned a Calling to it in the first place. 

This bond isn't as thick as Peter's -- none of them are; that makes Peter preen -- but it does reflect Peter's understanding of the Dallas packs, his guesses as to what it might take to be a Dallas alpha. While his was formed out of metal, this one is made of vines or tree roots, Peter can't tell precisely, plaited together into a thick, teeming mass. Blood-red flowers are scattered across the bond and hooked, poison-green thorns flash into sight every so often, last long enough to drip little bursts of ominously black petrichor-scented dirt before disappearing again.

Stiles presses his thumb to one of the thorns, slices his skin open, and then lets the blood drop into the centre of the largest flower. Peter flinches when the flower instantly moves, snapping at the blood and seemingly swallowing it down. 

"Vampire flowers," he says, "on a _bond_?" 

"It's the easiest way to feed her my power," Stiles says. "One of the safest ways, too. The flowers can only accept so much and that gives Tish the time to take in and adapt to what I give her before I can send her more." He looks at Peter, just momentarily, and adds, "It's the quasi-emissary bond. When that dissipates, the flowers will go as well." 

Peter's had the thought, entertained it, but Stiles seems to be implying it as well, just said ' _when_ ,' not 'if.' "Alpha bond, mate bond, emissary bond," Peter says. "Three's a sacred number." 

Stiles feed a different flower another drop of his blood, then tugs on the bond, lets it -- and all the rest of them -- disappear again. "That's your choice to offer," Stiles says. "You may not want me as your emissary. And I'm content to not be one. There haven't been many emissary Sparks; whether that's a personality thing or if the majority of us just aren't compatible in that way with packs, I don't know. But I wasn't going to presume." 

Stiles' magic is -- intimidating, and knowing that Stiles is willing to become Peter's emissary and use all the power of a Spark to the pack's benefit is more than Peter can accept when he's still having trouble believing that Stiles wants to _mate_ with him. 

"Let's wait and see," Peter suggests. "I don't think we're the type to rely on a formal ceremony, so." He pauses, shrugs, as if to say, _if it happens, it happens_. "I won't stop the bond if it develops naturally," he adds. "But you should feel free to." 

"I'm free to feel whatever I want," Stiles points out. "You might be alpha of my pack but you're never going to assert dominance over a Spark. You do understand that, Peter. Right?" 

Peter takes Stiles' hand, watches as a car ahead of them merges onto the highway, immediately picks up to match Peter's speed when they overtake it. "I see why Letitia chose Joaquín as a driver," Peter says. "He's a street racer?" 

"A damn good one," Stiles says. "The car's about as souped-up as it can get and he's got the reflexes to handle it. Don't change the subject."

"When a wolf has a human mate," Peter says, "they're compelled to satisfy them, protect them, serve them. We can fight against the instincts, try and train ourselves to resist them, but it's always easier to find ways to work with them rather than against them. You're not human but the idea's the same, and nothing in that ideal has anything to do with dominance. Stiles, your happiness is my priority. _Pleasing_ you is my priority. Any wolf, _every_ wolf, feels that way about its mate." Stiles makes a noise, displeased with the response. Peter's not sure why, not when everything he said was truth. He squeezes Stiles' fingers, says, softer, deadlier, "If you're talking about sex, then I don't care. As long as you end up covered in my come and reeking of it, I don't care how it happens." 

Stiles covers their joined hands with his other one, scratches nails down the back of Peter's hand. "I want you to be able to say no to me," Stiles says, eyes fixed on their hands, on the way that his nails bring up white scratch-marks on Peter's skin that last for a second, then fade with the wolf's healing. 

"I will," Peter says. "And if I forget, you'll remind me. You haven't been shy about it thus far." 

That makes Stiles relax a little. He brings Peter's hand to his mouth, bites at the knuckles, teeth sharp enough to send a sting circling through Peter's blood. Peter wishes he could take his other hand off the wheel, slip his hand in his jeans, jerk off to the feel of Stiles' teeth in his skin, Stiles' hand entwined with his. He's driving almost twice the speed limit, though, and Stiles looks better with Letitia being close but he's still pale, still sitting a little too heavily in the passenger seat. 

"Are the ADHD symptoms yours?" Peter asks, in an effort to distract himself. "Or is that something you put on for the sake of the pack?" 

Stiles grins, looks as if he knows what Peter's doing and why. He lets go of Peter's hand, shifts in his seat, pulls the blanket back up over his legs. "A convenient explanation," he says. "For the most part. The hyperfocus is all me and the impatience is because most people are stupid. The rambling -- once you get a reputation for being talkative, people stop listening. The fidgeting and mood swings were Spark things; once I started using the magic and was able to channel the excess energy properly, they stopped. I'm actually pretty graceful, too, turns out. Do you," he pauses, asks, gingerly, "do you want me to --"

"No," Peter says, cutting Stiles off and getting a paw to the head from his wolf for the disrespect. "I want you to be you. You said you wanted me to know what I'd be getting into bed with. I'd like to know the truth of you outside the bedroom, too." 

"And you say you're not easy to love," Stiles teases. If Peter could smell him, he's sure Stiles would be oozing happiness, contentment, satisfaction. 

The phone rings, startles them both. Peter doesn't swerve but his heart jumps; Stiles flinches, swears under his breath. He picks it up, accepts the call, and can't get a word out before Letitia says, " _I know he's a wolf, Spark, but for the love of Zäna, he'll crash if you give him head while he's driving_." 

Peter laughs, can't help it. Stiles rolls his eyes, whether at Peter or Letitia, Peter's not sure, and says, "I don't have the energy for that right now and even if I did, I have faith in Peter's abilities to keep a car on the road no matter what I'm doing." 

" _You were biting his knuckles_ ," she says, and Peter flicks his eyes to the rearview, doesn't see them, looks to the side and watches as Letitia leans over Joaquín, stares them down while she's talking to Stiles. " _I know what happens when you start biting. The whole_ pack _knows what happens when you start biting_." 

Stiles hangs upon her, muttering. 

"Am I going to laugh at this story," Peter asks, "or get insanely jealous?" 

"Probably both," Stiles eventually says. "Ugh. Alphas." 

\--

Stiles falls asleep, lulled under by the rhythm of the road and, more importantly and more likely, drained by the use of his magic earlier. Peter doesn't know how much energy it takes to visibly manifest noncorporeal bonds but it's probably more than Stiles can afford at this point. Still, having Letitia in the lane next to them seems to be helping, enough that Stiles' breathing is clear, even, steady. 

Peter glances over at the other car once Stiles is solidly asleep, quickly takes in Joaquín and Letitia. Joaquín is young, Stiles' age, Peter thinks, and looks so stereotypically Hispanic that if they get pulled over, he's going to be asked for his papers. Letitia didn't seem very Anglo either, not the way Peter and Stiles do; the most instantly noticeable feature of hers is her hair, gorgeous black and tumbling long, free, over her shoulders. 

He tilts his head in greeting before turning his eyes back to the road, scanning the landscape as they approach Wichita Falls, wonders what they're thinking of him, what Letitia knows, what they think is happening. No way to know, not without asking or eavesdropping on Stiles as _he_ asks, so Peter clears his mind and drives. 

\--

They make good time -- excellent time, even. Peter outruns a cop fifteen miles from Fort Worth, and follows Joaquín off the highway to avoid any others now on their track. Joaquín leads them across a series of small -- but paved -- back roads as they work their way around the Metroplex. They stop for gas twice. Joaquín stays inside his car while Peter refuels, waits until Peter's back in his car before doing the same. Peter's not sure why but he doesn't mind it. Scenting an alpha, especially one connected to Stiles, would no doubt throw his instincts out of line, prod him to defend Stiles and do it viciously, his soon-to-be mate in such a vulnerable state right now. 

They arrive -- and promptly drive through -- Pitkin, Louisiana, four hours later. Stiles has slept through all of it. With about forty minutes before they lose their escort, Peter reaches over, wraps his hand around the back of Stiles' neck and then immediately moves it back to the steering wheel while he swallows down the sickness of utter revulsion. 

"Peter, breathe," Stiles says -- no, the Spark commands. He has no choice, has to breathe, has to obey, and he starts gasping around the vomit building in his throat. "You're fine," the Spark says. "You're not going to throw up. Everything is okay."

"Right," Peter says, as the building sickness instantly disappears, as his wolf whines, buries its muzzle in its paws, hides from the displeasure of the Spark's magic. "I'm fine. You're right, everything's fine." He takes a hesitant breath, takes a longer, deeper one when he finds himself feeling, if not back to normal, then much better. " _Fuck_. Okay. Never doing that again." 

Stiles rests a hand on Peter's thigh, goes to pull it back as if he's doubting his welcome. Peter puts his hand on top of Stiles', keeps it pressed down. "Told you," Stiles says, quietly. "You'll never be able to assert dominance." 

He sounds cautious, hesitant, worried. Peter would do anything to permanently wipe that tone of voice out of Stiles' body and away from him ever being able to use it again. "Scruffing is a comfort act," Peter says. "At least, that's how I was using it." 

"Your instincts say otherwise," Stiles says. "And they're right. It might have evolved into a comfort thing in the Hale pack, but it's traditionally used as a disciplinary method." 

"We'll learn," Peter says. " _I'll_ learn. And if I do something stupid, you can pull me out of it like you just did. That's a useful skill, Stiles. I appreciate not vomiting all over my car." 

Stiles snickers, calms down. He turns his hand over, clasps Peter's. "Why were you trying to wake me up, anyway?"

"We're half an hour or so from Lafayette," Peter says. "I didn't want you to wake up to feel your bond with Letitia stretched thin and not know why. Also, you should probably take the block off your scent before we get to New Orleans, so I have time to get used to it." 

"We'll stop in Lafayette," Stiles says, after a minute or two of consideration. "Long enough to fuel up and say goodbye?" He waits for Peter to nod in agreement then calls Letitia, tells her, "Find us a gas station in Lafayette, Tish. A safe one." 

Peter hears her heart tick up in speed, just for a moment. " _There's a Texaco on the north side owned by a friend of the Lafayette pack_ ," she says. " _No cameras and the workers are encouraged to ignore anything out of the ordinary. I'll text the address. Anything else right now, Spark_?" 

Stiles looks at Peter, who shakes his head. "We're set. See you soon."

A moment later, Stiles' phone rings with an incoming text. Stiles pulls up the address, opens Google Maps, activates turn-by-turn directions. "Tish leads the Bah'hatteno pack," Stiles says. "She sits on the Alliance council but isn't a voting member, so you can address her as River Alpha and not be considered rude, especially because this is going to be a quick meeting. Joaquín is a beta in her pack; he was bitten about four years ago and is one of their pack border guards." 

"Anything else I need to know?" Peter asks. 

Stiles thinks for a few minutes, finally says, "I don't think so. Once they're back on the road, I'll take the block off. After we're settled and back in the car, I'll call the kittens, warn them we're on our way. Should we -- do you want me to tell them why we're coming?" 

On one hand, Peter wants to do this properly, wants to hunt Deucalion himself, and his instincts are already a little annoyed that he didn't even find Deucalion's location, is taking the information from someone else. On the other hand, and more pragmatically, Stiles is sick and the sooner they mate, the better he'll feel, so if Stiles can lead them right to Deucalion's front door, all the better. 

"They should probably know there's going to be a dead body," Peter says, reluctantly. "They might be upset if they notice one of their blood-sworn residents is no longer living. But if you think we can get away with that and nothing else --." 

He stops there, leaving the choice to Stiles. He'll miss the chase but Stiles is more important. Stiles will always be more important. 

"We'll see how the conversation goes," Stiles says. The phone, still in his hand, vibrates with an incoming call. Stiles looks down at it, sees who's trying to get in touch with him, and rejects the call. 

"Which of our lovely pack members is finally trying to get in touch with you a _day_ after you've seen any of them?" Peter asks, cool like the slide of ice-water down the throat. 

Stiles lets one bitter chuckle flow out of his mouth. "My dad," he says. "The phone wouldn't ring for the pack." 

Peter frowns, says, "It rang when Letitia called. Are -- how many people would it ring or vibrate for when it's set to silent for your _pack_ , Stiles?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees Stiles' shoulders tense, wonders what he would smell like if he wasn't hiding his scent. "Eight," Stiles says. "Six will ring, two will vibrate." Peter waits Stiles out, is rewarded when Stiles says, "It vibrates for my dad and my mentor. It'll ring for Letitia, Bee-Bee, the maestro of a kiss in Chicago, a sidhe out in New Hampshire, a coven leader in Oregon, and -- and you." 

"You haven't charged it," Peter says, mind racing as he tries to figure out why those people, why _him_ , how Stiles knows a sidhe and what the fuck he's been doing with a coven and a group of _vampires_ that's ended up with him choosing to be at the disposal of their leaders, to put another alpha ahead of Scott, of Lydia, of Derek. "Your phone should be dead."

"There's a glyph on the battery," Stiles says. "Peter, are you --." Stiles shakes his head, peeks at Peter but doesn't otherwise lift his head, doesn't move his gaze from where it's very firmly pinned on the phone in his lap. 

Peter sighs, says, "I'm an idiot, aren't I. You never would have waited until after college to talk about us mating." 

Stiles looks up, looks at Peter, and Peter watches as a smile blooms large and gorgeous across Stiles' mouth. "You're lucky I waited this long," Stiles says. "And I'm lucky you waited, instead of pressing the issue. I don't know that I've said thank you; we probably could have saved a lot of time and avoided a great deal of heartache if you'd bitten me in the garage but I appreciate having the freedom to find out what I am, to learn how to harness it, to use it. We'll be better off with the connections I've made, too; we'll have alliances and backing when we claim Beacon Hills. If that's where you want to settle. I've been assuming, but -- is that where you want to set your pack?"

"There should be a Hale alpha in charge of the Hale lands," Peter says, "but I'm willing to give that up if you'd prefer somewhere else."

"I have friends there," Stiles says. "Not the pack, because I'm sure that they'll oppose us -- Scott will, anyway -- but others, in Beacon Hills and Beacon Valley. My mentor's there, my mother's buried there, I like the land, it likes me, we'll have a nemeton of our own. I'd be happy if we stayed."

Stiles' mask has been so thorough over the years; Peter almost can't believe he's hearing Stiles so easily dismiss his current pack. "You'd stay for your mother's grave but not your living father?" Peter asks. 

"Mom -- my relationship with her is complicated," Stiles says. "She knew what I was, what I am, on some level. She had magic of her own, maybe enough that she could have trained to be a low-level druid if she'd wanted. Enough to try and kill me more than once." Peter wants to question that, wants to ask what the hell Stiles is talking about, wants to go back in time and rip Claudia Stilinski apart for even _daring_ to think about destroying someone as precious as her own son. "It was instinct," Stiles says. "Shifters have them, but so do magic users. Until a Spark ignites, for lack of a better term, they're always at risk and other magic users will be driven -- _always_ \-- to try and kill them. Shifters are the only ones who won't, who'll die to protect us. Why do you think so many of the old tales talk about Sparks growing up among wolves or cats or foxes?"

"Alan," Peter says, running through his memory, trying to see if he can recall how the druid interacted with Stiles over the years. There was never anything overtly threatening but Peter remembers the sacrifice, the wolf lichen, the look in Deaton's eyes when Scott stuck his claws in the back of Stiles' neck during his possession. It makes sense: druids preserve the balance and if there's one creature more dismissive of balance than a Spark, Peter's never heard of it. "When did you ignite, Stiles?" _How long have you been in danger when I could have been protecting you_? 

Stiles licks his lips, says, "When Jackson was still a kanima, I was at the mechanic's getting my Jeep fixed and he was sent to -- I was poisoned. I don't know if anyone told you. I think part of me knew before then; I was unconsciously doing a lot of -- but. That's when I woke up. Before Gerard, before the alpha pack, before the darach, before the sacrifice and the possession. I went through all of that with my eyes open, Peter." 

"Would you have come to me," Peter asks, "if you'd needed me?" 

Stiles smiles at him, silly and affectionate and brilliantly wide. "Idiot wolf," he says. "I came now, didn't I?"


	3. Chapter 3

There's no one at the gas station when they pull in. Peter takes the opportunity to fill up the tank while they're stopped and Stiles gets out of the car as well, joints popping as he lets out a truly obscene moan. Peter drinks up the sight: Stiles' messy hair, the play of his long, thin fingers flicking away a mosquito, the line of his neck as he tilts his face up to the sun and soaks up its heat and light. 

"Meet you around back?" Stiles asks. "Unless you want me to run inside and pick up snacks. You hungry?" 

Yes, Peter's hungry, but not for anything the convenience store has to offer. He wants _Stiles_. "I'm good," Peter says, voice breaking a little over the edges of a growl. 

Stiles gives Peter a wry grin, says, "No, you're really not." Peter rolls his eyes and Stiles laughs, the sound lingering in Lafayette's humid air. "Try and park away from the road," Stiles tells him. "No cameras, sure, but let's not push our luck." 

Peter agrees and watches as Stiles walks around the store, bare feet picking their way without hesitation over cement and asphalt. Peter glances in the car window, sees Stiles' Converse in the passenger side footwell, sighs. 

\--

Tank full, Peter moves the car around to the back of the building. He doesn't bother with his seatbelt; he's out of the car again as soon as it's parked and turned off. Stiles is leaning up against the wall, one foot propped up, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looks like nothing so much as some truck-stop hooker, shirt hitched high by the brick's rasp and tight around his shoulders, jeans slung low on his hips thanks to the weight loss he's experienced, bitten-raw lips showing up red against the pale luminescence of his skin. It's no wonder Peter jumps when a couple car doors open next to them; with such a delicious feast of future-mate right in front of him, who would blame him for his distraction? 

Stiles runs his eyes up and down Peter's frame, leers at him before turning to the woman stepping out of the other car, all lasciviousness erased from his face as his expression goes blank. 

Peter takes the woman in: short, barely five feet tall, and a thinness to her frame that borders on gaunt, highlighted by her skinny jeans and fitted t-shirt. Her eyes are a dark, shining brown and her hair, as he'd seen so briefly in the car, shines a lustrous black and falls down to the small of her back in loose waves. He can't tell if she's Native or Latina but assumes she's one or the other, not Mediterranean. 

"River Alpha," Stiles says as he crosses the distance to her, wraps her up in his arms. Peter studies the hug, the way Stiles doesn't fully relax into it, doesn't seem as if this is something he'd choose to do without any other consideration pressing on him. Peter decides that Stiles is doing it mostly for the bond's sake, as physical reassurance will go a long way towards settling Letitia's wolf; he resists the urge to growl at anything Stiles feels obligated to do, rather than wanting to do. "It's good to see you, Tish." 

"Spark," she murmurs. Stiles bends and Letitia stands on her tiptoes, drags her nose along Stiles' cheekbone. "It's been too long. Thank you for calling me." 

Stiles gives her another moment then disengages, takes a step to the side and hugs Joaquín -- tall, lanky, grinning wide -- and scrapes teeth over the boy's Adam's apple when it's offered. "Hey," he says. "Long time, no see."

Joaquín smiles, says, "Anytime you wanna come visit, we'll have you, Spark. But where's your scent gone, hmm? I was looking forward to having it on me when I get home. You know it'll annoy the others that I got to see you." 

"Long story," Stiles says. Joaquín dips his head, easily accepts Stiles' refusal to explain. Stiles moves back, runs his hand down Peter's arm. "Alpha, it's my pleasure to introduce you to Peter Hale, my promised mate, currently beta in the McCall pack of Beacon Hills." 

Letitia looks Peter over carefully, especially when Stiles uses the word 'currently.' For his part, Peter meets her eyes then drops his gaze for a couple seconds before he's bringing it back up, lifting his chin as well. "Beta Hale," she says, and offers her wrist. 

To say that Peter is surprised would be putting it lightly; alphas don't offer a wrist-scenting to just anyone. Peter was introduced as a Spark's future mate, though, and Stiles does have a bond with her -- perhaps it's more of a political decision that an instinctual one. 

Peter takes her arm, gently, and bends down, shows the vulnerable back of his neck as he inhales the skin over her pulse point, categorises and catalogues her scent: damp clay, wet fur, rain falling on bloody rivers, lilypads and mud, a hint of the same salt that runs throughout Stiles' scent. He lets go, stands up straight, tilts his head to show the lines of his neck in respect. "River Alpha," he says. "Well met. Thank you for taking care of Stiles." A smile dances around her mouth but it disappears when Peter asks, "Did I -- when I was here before, did I stay with the Bah'hatteno pack?" 

Letitia's eyes flick to Stiles, then back to Peter. "No," she says. "You were with the Ho'tonu. As I recall, you were a particular favourite of the Wind Alpha. The Alliance did celebrate the Night of the Old Mother together but I don't think we were ever formally introduced. I'm glad to meet you now. Watch over our Spark, will you? He has a tendency to get himself into the most ridiculous situations." 

"I'll do my best," Peter drawls. 

Stiles knocks his shoulder against Peter's and Letitia gestures Joaquín forward, says, "Beta Joaquín, by choice a member of my pack."

Joaquín grins; it seems like happiness comes easy to him. "You're a good driver, Beta Peter, even with that one in your passenger seat. Anytime you wanna try a real race, just let me know. Maybe I can even convince our Spark to distract you so I win." 

"Maybe," Stiles says. "Depends on what's in it for me." 

Peter pretends outrage and Joaquín laughs. He nods at Peter, gives Stiles another hug, then gets back in the car. Letitia steps closer to Peter and Stiles, talks more quietly; Peter doesn't know if Joaquín can still hear them but he appreciates the pretense when Letitia asks, "Will there be trouble, Spark? I know you; you're not just going to New Orleans to bond."

Stiles draws Letitia into a one-armed hug, speaks loud enough for Peter to hear. "I have allies in the city and I have Peter. I'll be fine, Tish." 

"You're going to be the death of me," Letitia says. "Stop by on your way back and let me know you survived, please? You and your wolf." 

"Will do," Stiles says. 

Letitia gets in the car, waves. A moment later, Joaquín's skidding out of the parking lot and squealing off back in the direction of Dallas. 

Stiles waits a couple minutes; when it's clear that they aren't coming back, he turns to Peter, says, "You ready?" 

"For you? Never," Peter says, and is only mostly joking. Stiles waits, humour gone from his face, completely serious. He's still, even his pulse has slowed down dramatically, and though his eyes are human-brown and not Spark-white, they seem like they're glowing, like Stiles is lit from within by a newborn sun in a way that delineates, again, just how non-human Stiles is at base level. "Sorry," Peter says, and he drops his eyes to the ground, bares his throat, holds his hands to his sides, palm out, fingers stretched wide. "I'm ready, Spark." 

Just like that, Stiles' scent comes flaring out full-bodied and rich, even deeper and more layered than before. Peter whines in the back of his throat, over and over again, drops to his knees and crawls forward, rubs his cheek against the Spark's foot. The physical contact helps, a shock to his system that restarts his heart, his lungs, and it's only then that he realises he hasn't been breathing. He pants, can't help letting his tongue out to taste the Spark's skin, keens when the flavour of the Spark's taste, his sweat, hits the back of Peter's throat. 

A hand in his hair, then, and Peter fucking _melts_ , collapses into a boneless heap as the Spark's fingers scritch at the back of his neck. He whimpers at the touch, brings his chin to rest on his chest, baring more of his neck for the Spark, giving all of himself to the riotous mass of scent and taste and power suffocating him. 

"Peter Hale," the Spark says. "Accept me." 

"I do," Peter breathes, trembling with his daring, to speak to a Spark. "I do, Spark, I do, I accept you, I _swear_ , I --" 

Nails on the back of his neck shut him up, the smell of his own blood mixing with the flood of the Spark's scent. The Spark drops to one knee, picks up Peter's head, cradles Peter's cheeks in his palms. Peter closes his eyes, can't look at the Spark, he's not worthy, but the Spark says, "Peter. Open your eyes and look at me." Peter does, whines again, as his eyes water in the light of the Spark's glory. "You are mine, Peter," the Spark says. "And everything of mine is part of everything of me." 

Peter -- breathes. There's something sweeping through him, slow but thorough, a scouring blaze of pine needles and liquid platinum, and he relaxes more and more with every inch it moves until he's sitting on the ground, gasping as he's held tight in Stiles' arms. 

Stiles. He can think of Stiles as Stiles again. 

He inhales, can still smell the full force of Stiles' scent, all those layers and attributes, each individual note and the way they all blend in harmonic power, and while the scent drops Peter's wolf into pure instinctive bliss, the man is able to sit, think, rationalise. "You claimed me," Peter says. "That's not exactly -- what happened to alpha-ordering me?" 

"This was better," Stiles says. "You _are_ mine, the same way I'm going to be yours." 

"This is what a Spark-mating feels like?" Peter asks. He's never considered the sorts of rites or ceremonies Sparks have for things like this: mating, childbirth, death. He doesn't remember reading anything about them, either, wonders if that's because each Spark chooses different methods or because there's no way to verbally explain the way it felt to have Stiles' magic sink into every single cell and lay claim to it, demand ownership and then return it, changed and grown, to Peter's control. 

Stiles brushes his lips against Peter's temple. "Usually there's more sex," he says, dryly. 

Peter laughs. 

\--

Even an hour later, back in the car and getting closer to New Orleans with every second that passes, Peter is still reeling. Some of it is Stiles' scent, the way it takes up every atom of space in the car, infuses everything with hints of trees and minerals, with blood and metal and bone, with fruit and liquor and all the lush humidity of rainforests. Some of it, the majority of it, is the recognition that Stiles has laid claim to him. No one else has ever wanted Peter, not really, and Peter should be upset that the claiming forced change on him, but -- but this is Stiles, who Peter already wanted, and a Spark, who's found Peter worth the time and trouble, and he doesn't _feel_ different at any appreciable level, except that he's still, somehow, mostly, himself even in the midst of a cloud of Stiles' scent. 

If Talia had wanted Peter even one one-hundredth as much as Stiles does, if Laura or Derek or Scott wanted Peter one one-millionth as much as Stiles, then perhaps Peter wouldn't be here right now, driving east on US-90 toward a city run by cats, planning on killing an alpha and mating a Spark. He'd be dead, or still in a coma, or happily serving as pack executioner, or content elder beta to a pack of idiots. 

Instead, he's watching as Stiles finishes eating a post-nap bag of Doritos and pulls out his phone. 

"Anything I should or definitely shouldn't tell the kittens?" Stiles asks. He glances up at Peter, a wicked look of amusement flashing across his features when he realises that Peter's still stuck on the mental image of Stiles sucking his fingers clean, cheeks hollowed. 

"I trust you," Peter says, voice rough. "Tell them what you think is best. You know them; I don't." 

Stiles nods, chews on his bottom lip for a moment before he pulls up his contact list, taps on one name about halfway down the list. Stiles puts the call on speaker -- redundant, dealing with shifters, but still appreciated -- and waits. 

Someone picks up; a woman's voice says, " _Spark. Is this a matter for the Consilium_?" 

Another woman. Stiles seems to surround himself with them. 

"Sekhmet," Stiles says, in reciprocal greeting, polite on the phone even though he's been calling them kittens when talking to Peter. Peter does find it interesting that Stiles would call a member of the Consilium rather than its leader; he wonders if it's because the Bastet is hard to reach or if the woman Stiles is currently talking to is the least objectionable of the council. "It is, yes." 

Peter hears a rustling on the other end of the call, then the woman says, " _Please continue, Spark. I'll pass the message on to the Bastet and the rest of the Consilium._ "

Stiles gives Peter a look -- one corner of his mouth tilted up, devious look in his eyes -- and says, "I'll be entering your territory soon. I wanted to give the Consilium a warning so you don't freak out when you feel me."

" _We did_ not _\-- very well, Spark_ ," she says. " _Business, pleasure, or danger_?"

"Business and pleasure," Stiles says. "I'm bringing a beta werewolf with me. He's bound to me; he won't be blood-swearing peace to enter the territory." 

There's a pause, a long pause. " _You've bound a werewolf_ ," she says. " _There was a time, Spark, when you said there was nothing more important to you than free will and now you've bound a wolf? Are you coming to our territory to expand your slave holdings_?" 

It's all Peter can do to keep from growling. He curls his lips, bares his teeth; he doesn't know how a cat -- how any shifter -- could speak to a Spark like this. It explains why Stiles doesn't like them very much, though -- explains it all too well. 

Stiles doesn't bother arguing, simply says, "No." 

" _Then you're bringing him to kill someone for you_ ," the cat says. " _Which of the -- no, it would be Deucalion, of course. The Demon Wolf will be pleased that you find him too difficult to kill yourself -- or offended that you're pushing off your dirty work on someone else._ "

"None of that is your concern," Stiles says. "I'm calling in my favour, Sekhmet. Put a watch on him; make sure he doesn't leave but don't tip him off. This is my beta's business to handle." 

" _Yes, Spark_ ," she says, sounds displeased but resigned to following Stiles' command. Peter doesn't _think_ Stiles used magic to enforce his demand, not with the cat's reluctance, but he can't be entirely sure. A side effect of the claiming, he thinks. " _As you will it. It's just such a shame that your wolf isn't able to handle the hunt himself. No wonder he's still a beta. Is that why you bound him? Is this your bargain: you give him the red eyes, he gives you ownership_?" 

Stiles snaps out, "I'll speak with you soon," and ends the call right as Peter starts growling. Stiles doesn't look much better; his smell has shifted, rage and hurt and loathing overpowering everything but the top-most layer of scent. "Told you. These cats are -- difficult." 

"Difficult is one thing," Peter says, trying to calm his wolf, to remind it that Stiles needs him calm, promises that they'll repay the insult to their Spark even if it takes decades, vows that they'll rip out the cats' throats the moment Stiles gives his permission. "Stiles, they accused you of creating an army of brainwashed slaves." 

"Not the most offensive thing they've ever accused me of," Stiles says, after a moment. "And, I mean -- a claim isn't that far away from brainwashing, and I am bringing you to kill someone for me," he points out. 

Peter's first reaction is to argue. His second is to argue. His third, fourth, and fifth are to argue. He doesn't. Peter inhales and exhales deep, even, and calms the wolf until it settles, lips peeled back to show fangs but quiet, watchful. 

"Because you need the strength of an alpha when we mate," Peter says. "And in order to inherit the alpha spark, I need to kill Deucalion, not you." Stiles makes a face that seems to indicate disagreement. Peter asks, "Do you -- _could_ you transfer it? If you killed him?" 

"It's possible," Stiles says. "But I thought you'd -- I mean, if you want to do it that way, then we could." 

Peter shakes his head. "No. I want to do it." He pauses, adds, "If you want to go straight there and hold him for me, I don't mind. There won't be any wasted time that way."

Stiles shifts in his seat, looks at Peter, ignores the speed at which they're making their way through Louisiana. "I would've thought you'd want the fight," Stiles says. "Would've thought your wolf -- did I burn that out of you?" 

Peter considers the question, gives it the time and thought it deserves. It's possible, he supposes; every part of him has been scrubbed through with Spark magic, claiming him down to his soul. There's no telling what that did but Peter knows Stiles, believes he does, anyway, and has trusted Stiles every time Stiles said he didn't want to change Peter, wanted Peter to remain as he was, is, even in the face of a Spark. That faith could also be a result of the claiming -- that would make it closer to brainwashing, like the cat suggested, a change that Peter can't even tell has happened, and maybe it is, maybe he's been altered at such a fundamental level that he'll never know how deeply he's been scoured clean -- but this is Stiles. 

"No," he finally says. "No, Stiles. The wolf would love a hunt but you're more important. We're more concerned about you." He chances a glance at Stiles, sees Stiles watching him with suspicion writ large over his features. "You said that you have ten days," Peter explains, "and then you nearly coughed up a lung when the pack bonds weren't strong enough to sustain you. You've been doing a lot of magic since then and the claiming can't have helped. We're worried that ten days is a -- that you don't have that long, especially since we're getting further away from Letitia. You should know by now how worry for a packmate takes priority over everything else, including the hunt. When that packmate is a future mate, and the mating is in jeopardy, well. You can imagine how much I want to get this thing with Deucalion over with and get you stabilised." 

Stiles looks as if he's going to be stubborn about this and argue but then they cross Bayou des Allemands and Peter nearly goes off the road with the force of the territory wards he just ran into. The car sputters and Peter's muttering, "No, no, come _on_ , it's just magic," when Stiles slaps the dashboard hard, leaves the imprint of a glyph on the surface and the acrid smell of blood rising up from his palm. The car steadies; Peter does slow down, now that they're within the Consilium's wards, but he doesn't stop. 

"I think we'll need to have a little talk with the kittens," Stiles says, in that hard-edged, merciless Spark tone of voice. Peter's wolf stretches, bares its teeth. "But first we'll kill Deucalion." 

\--

Peter's not sure where he expected Deucalion to be living, maybe somewhere in the Garden District or the Marigny, near Audubon Park or tucked up in Lakeshore, but Stiles directs him to a small, unassuming cul-de-sac in Algiers, has him park out front of a one-story home with an empty carport and a bright red door. Peter raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask Stiles if he's sure; Stiles knows all too well how to track the tenor of a werewolf, especially one he's met before. 

Stiles fixes eyes on a house across the street, leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest. "He's in the bedroom," Stiles says. "Feel free to make a mess; I can clean it up before we leave. I'm going to have a little talk with the coyote that the cats sent as a watcher." 

Peter glances at the house Stiles is watching, sees the curtains shift, then leans over, presses a kiss to Stiles' cheek, inhales deep and tries to convince himself that Stiles will be safe. 

"Be right back," Peter murmurs, then pulls himself away from Stiles, gets out of the car and walks up to Deucalion's front door. The door opens when he gets there; Peter grins, can't help it. He always knew Stiles would make a wonderful wolf, an even better mate whether human or not, but a Spark --. 

Peter goes inside, studies the home as he moves inward, towards the struggles he can hear. The walls are bare, for the most part, and the rooms are the same, furniture shoved to the edges and leaving empty space in the middles where Peter would ordinarily expect a coffee table or, at the very least, a rug. A mess of dishes -- both clean and dirty -- cover the kitchen, from sink to counter and back again, and a few flies buzz in and out of the open back door, breeze playing with the papers scattered over the table in the breakfast nook. The ceiling fan in the living room moves around air heavily scented with wolves and sweat; its shadow dances discomfitingly on the walls. Peter's shoes click-echo on hardwood and tile floor, though when Peter opens the bedroom door, his shoes hit carpet, sink in. 

He pauses in the doorway, lets his eyes take in the sight of the Demon Wolf pinned to the bed, yelling even though his voice has been taken away, fighting against the way his limbs are outstretched and tied to the bed, no sign of the magical restraints though Peter can smell a tinge of ozone in the air. He stops when he notices Peter's presence, snarls but lies there, teeth bared and snapping every so often at the air. 

"Hello, Deucalion," Peter purrs. "Fancy meeting you here." 

He saunters closer, perches on the edge of the bed, looks at his right hand and watches as his claws come out, can feel his eyes flash and then stay blue. Deucalion watches as well, meets Peter's gaze with his own alpha-red eyes. His chest vibrates as though he's trying to growl but he's still struck noiseless. Peter appreciates it. 

If he had time, Peter would draw this out. He'd extract every ounce of pain for which Deucalion is in debt to the Hale family, call forth every scream from Deucalion that Deucalion's extracted from Peter's packs, pay Deucalion back for Derek and Cora, Erica and Boyd. He'd show Deucalion that others can be demons as well, prove that Deucalion has only lasted as long as this because of all the death he's meted out in the search for power, that no one cares about him, not really, not truly, that he's been living on borrowed time and owes reparations for every second he's spent breathing since Gerard Argent first tried to kill him. 

But Peter doesn't have time and, in some respects, he doesn't care enough about Deucalion to fight the urge to kill him quick. Deucalion is only a means to an end, only dying because his death will serve Stiles the best. Peter smiles and doesn't say a word as he rips through Deucalion's throat with one hand and watches him go still. 

The alpha spark hits Peter full in the face, knocks him off the bed and sends him tumbling back out into the hallway, hitting the wall with enough force to go halfway through the drywall. The Hale alpha spark was strong, yes, but it transferred generationally, never took more than a fraction of each successive alpha's power to add to the main source, growing a little bit at a time over the years, the inheritance remaining ordered, sane. Deucalion's killed at least a dozen alphas, maybe more, and the growling, anarchic mass of power contains each of those legacies, all of them fighting for supremacy and against each other. 

It's easy to see why Deucalion went as mad as he did without any betas grounding him; the noise of this power is immense, suffocating, and Peter would easily have already succumbed to its bloodthirsty insanity without Stiles' claim. It's only the Spark's magic, lurking in Peter's bones and blood, that gives him the strength to fight back, to claw the alpha spark under control, to force it to _obey_ him rather than run rampant. 

It takes long, agonising minutes but Peter finally gains control enough to stand up, brush plaster off his clothes and out of his hair. He can feel the difference as he breathes, feels the power of untold alphas and packs in every inch of his body as he inhales, exhales, twists his shoulders and lets his eyes flash red. His senses are more acute; he can smell the decay starting to set in on Deucalion's corpse, can taste the river and a leftover trace of coyote on the back of his throat when he opens his mouth, can hear the rhythm of Stiles' heartbeat in the car. His fangs drop down, he aches to sink his teeth into Stiles, feels his blood thrum as he imagines the taste of Stiles' blood in his mouth, and he's moving before he's even realised it. 

He goes outside, waits a second for his eyes to adjust, then prowls to the passenger side of the car, opens the door and bends, leaning over Stiles. It only takes a second before the alpha power flattens him, has him dropping to one knee, panting for breath as his eyes go red, as the wolf batters him from the inside, snarling and growling at him for such disrespect. 

"You are still mine, Peter," Stiles says, not even bothering to look up from his phone, far too calm for having an alpha with fangs dropped and claws extended right next to him. "And everything of mine is part of everything of me." 

The words go through Peter's skin, blanket the wolf under ropes of mistletoe and aconite, leave it whimpering as it tries to roll over and show its belly. It hurts, _god_ , it hurts, it's like Peter's dying all over again, and he wheezes out, "Spark, please, I -- _Stiles_ , I'm yours, I swear, nothing's changed." 

Stiles sets his phone down, finally looks at Peter with those Spark-white eyes that never fail to send a chill down Peter's spine. "Get up," he says, and Peter is moving, instantly; if he had any doubt about whether or not he'd still respond to one of Stiles' commands after the claim, he has his answer. Stiles gets out of the car, presses close to Peter, offers up his left arm. "I'm your pack, Alpha Hale," he says. "Make it official." 

Peter drags his tongue over Stiles' wrist, his wolf whining now in disrespect as well as pain, breath coming short and gasping. "Mine," Peter says, is barely able to say. "My pack. My Spark." 

"Yes," Stiles says. "Yours. I request entry into the Hale pack, alpha. Will you --" 

"Yes," Peter says, cutting Stiles off. " _Yes_." 

The wolf goes silent. For a moment, Peter thinks it's dead, that Stiles' binding has killed it, but then the bond between them explodes into sight and Peter stumbles back, wolf curled up contentedly and all traces of Stiles' spell gone. Peter can only stare as he takes in the silver gleam of their bond, of the way that welded barbs emerge from the coruscating metal at regular intervals, of the grapevine twining around it, the blooming thorned roses, the rich scent of sea-salt.

"It's gorgeous," Peter breathes. He reaches out to touch the bond before he remembers that what he's seeing is just a visible manifestation, that it doesn't exist, but his fingertips glance against the silver, wrist brushing the edge of one of the roses. He shudders at the feeling, looks at Stiles, who's watching him with wide eyes and parted mouth. "What?" he asks, voice rough. 

"We formed an emissary bond," Stiles says. 

Peter looks down at the bond, realises -- "The flowers." 

Stiles draws his fingers along the bond, those gorgeously long fingers of his, and Peter _feels_ it, deep inside, feels Stiles' hand ruffling through his wolf's fur, feels his nails scritching the wolf's muzzle, the space between its ears. "It's not complete yet," Stiles says, a moment after he stops playing with the bond, playing with _Peter_. "Metal for our bond, salt to represent our pack bond, the grapevine for my claim, the roses for the emissary bond. We have one more aspect, Peter. We could -- we could do the bite here."

Peter narrows his eyes, taps a claw against the bond and listens to the echo. "No," he says. Stiles' heart jumps. Peter says, "I want to do it properly," and listens as Stiles' pulse starts to race the moment Stiles understands what Peter means. 

Stiles lets the vision of the bond dissipate, gives Peter time to tuck his lupine attributes away. He has a little bit of trouble getting his eyes to stop from flashing red but makes it by the time Stiles is back in the car, looking up at him through the open door. "I have access to the elemental's wards," Stiles says. "We'll stay in one of their houses. The wards are already better than anything the kittens can do and I know how to strengthen them so nothing we do will get out." 

Peter nods, closes Stiles' door, goes around the car, gets in and turns the car on. He spares a split-second to wonder what Stiles is going to do to Deucalion's body, the house, and what happened to the coyote Stiles said he was going to talk to, but that's not important, not now, not with the feel of their bond still ringing in Peter's ears and his wolf restless, desperate to complete the bond, to sink teeth into his mate and scar Stiles with his bite. 

"Just tell me how to get to a bed," Peter says. "I don't care who it belongs to, I just -- please, Stiles." 

He looks at Stiles, sees Stiles watching him with Spark-white eyes. Peter puts the car in gear and drives out of the cul-de-sac, turns right at the first intersection when Stiles points in that direction. 

\--

The elemental has a home on the bend of Hopedale Highway. It's a good place for a bayou-leaning water elemental, stuck as it is next to Bayou La Loutre and amongst all the lagoons, rivers, and lakes. When Peter pulls in front of an elevated house with three different types of watercraft underneath, he hears Stiles' pulse kick up a couple beats per minute. Peter wishes it was because of what they're planning on doing the second they're inside but has a feeling it has more to do with the three people sitting on the stairs. 

Peter parks, turns off the car. "Three of the Consilium, I take it," he says. "They're between us and the bedroom, Stiles." 

"Don't I know it," Stiles mutters. "All right, fine. Let's get this over with." 

They get out of the car -- Peter locks it behind them, unwilling to leave it at the mercy of the cats -- and walk to the house. The three cats -- two men and a woman -- stand up, start to sway. Peter's not sure why until he remembers that Stiles isn't blocking his scent, that either the breeze coming off the bayou is sending it over to them or Stiles is pushing it their way. One of the men is already on his belly when Peter and Stiles get fifteen steps away; the other two are on their knees. 

"Spark," one of the men tries. 

Stiles doesn't say a word, doesn't stop walking, and the three of them end up curled in a heap on one side of the path, eyes gone slitted, claws out. Stiles doesn't waste time with them, merely walks past them without so much as glancing at them when they start mewing. 

The woman gasps, pleads, " _Spark_." 

Stiles ignores her. 

Peter's never been more turned on his life. He's always been attracted to power but Stiles is -- Stiles is on another level of being entirely, so much a Spark that Peter wonders if he knew, somehow, and that's why he's been so obsessed since the first time he scented Stiles. He can see now why Stiles calls the Consilium kittens: they're stupid on their own power, thinking they're on par with one of the strongest beings in the universe. Peter wonders if Stiles has ever thought of the McCall pack like pups, wants to know how old a shifter has to grow before they gain the perspective and humility to treat Stiles as he deserves without complaint or shame. He remembers that the nogitsune was a thousand years old, that it must have known, because it knew enough to teach Stiles but also knew enough of its place in the hierarchy to die when Stiles decided it was time. 

Peter would do anything for Stiles, even apart from their bond. To some extent, he always has. Maybe that means he's intelligent, too.

Stiles stops at the top of the steps, looks down at the three cats, members of the Consilium, a council feared across the nation, and cracks a spiteful smile. "Consider yourself lucky I'm too busy to deal with you right now," he tells them. "Go home. _Swim_ home." 

The three crawl over to the bayou, roll into the water, start swimming upstream, back towards New Orleans. Peter snorts, then covers his mouth as he starts to laugh, trying to hide it. Stiles elbows him; Peter looks over, sees Stiles fighting a smile of his own, and can't help it. 

"They hate water," Stiles murmurs, once Peter's calmed down a little, once the cats are out of sight. "That's why they contracted with the elemental. It's a fitting enough punishment for now." 

"You like it here," Peter says. "You could disband the council, make this city your own. If those three are any indication of what this city's leaders are like, others might even thank you for it." 

Stiles hums, says, "I could make this entire country my own, Peter. But I'd really rather not -- we both want you in Beacon Hills. I like it here, you're right, but I think that's more a function of this being one of the few places outside of the Hills I've been to. Once you get our pack established, we'll be able to visit. I'd like to come back at some point but I'd like to go a lot of other places, too." 

Peter wraps an arm around Stiles' waist, runs his nose down the line of skin next to Stiles' ear. "We'll go everywhere you want, sweetheart. Anywhere." 

"Right now I want to go inside," Stiles says. "Sound good?" 

"Sounds excellent," Peter says. 

He lets go of Stiles -- reluctantly -- and follows Stiles over to the door, watches as Stiles places his hand square in the middle of the solid wood and a dome of murky blue shows itself, coating the walls, windows. There's -- Peter can feel Stiles do something, doesn't know how, exactly, or why he's sensing Stiles' magic, but the wards run Spark-white and the door clicks open. Stiles pushes it open further, goes inside, waits for Peter to follow before shutting the door and locking it, tracing out three runes over the handle. 

Stiles turns and leans against the door, bites his lip and looks up at Peter through his eyelashes. Peter growls, more than accepts the invitation; he presses the lines of their bodies together, kisses Stiles rough and bruising, biting his way into Stiles' mouth. His hands grip Stiles' sides, go up under Stiles' shirt to make contact with skin, and Stiles settles his arms around Peter's neck, fingers playing with Peter's hair as he wraps one leg around Peter's calves, groaning into the kiss. 

"God, you -- _bedroom_ , Peter," Stiles says, getting the words out between Peter's kisses. "I know I -- but not against -- _shit, Peter_ \-- not against a door for our first time. Want you to -- _fuck_ , god, do that again -- to fuck me in a bed." 

There's no command in the statement, Peter would be free to ignore Stiles and fuck him here, but now he's thinking about Stiles spread out on a mattress, thinking about getting Stiles naked underneath him and taking his time, and -- yes. Yes, that's what Peter wants, too. 

He rips himself backwards, eyes caught on the minute tears in Stiles' lips, the way they're swollen and close to shedding blood, and says, "Bedroom. Yes. _Run_." 

Stiles smirks, then flees. 

\--

Peter gives Stiles a head start before chasing him down, too intent on finding Stiles to pay much attention to the house they're about to christen. He nearly trips over Stiles' t-shirt, left in the hallway, then actually does stumble over the pile of jeans and underwear outside of the bathroom. He can smell Stiles, that glorious Spark scent of his now threaded through with arousal and desire, and filling the house to the brim, saturating everything with want and need and a thick, syrupy, clinging emotion that Peter thinks might be the Spark's version of love. 

The abundance of Stiles' scent means it's harder to track him. Peter throws open the door to one bedroom, snarls when he finds it empty. The second door opens to a game room, empty as well, and one of the doors is to a linen closet. Peter has to fight back the urge to smash the door, to throw all the towels and sheets and quilts on the floor, but there's only one door left and the scent here, at the back of the house, is overpowering. 

Peter opens the door slowly, the growl in his chest turning to a rumble as he stops, drinks in the sight in front of him. Stiles is on the bed, naked, dick hard and leaking as he rests on spread-wide knees. One hand's wrapped around his cock, the other is behind him, and Stiles has his head thrown back, mouth open, as the muscles in his arms and thighs flex. Peter's mouth waters as he takes in the picture Stiles makes, as he lets his eyes feast, for the first time, on Stiles' nude body: his lean build, his broad shoulders and narrow waist, skin gleaming with inner Spark-light, the curves of his muscles and the angles of his hips. 

"Beautiful," he says, speaks through his fangs. "God, Stiles, you --." 

"Get up here," Stiles says, and Peter's eyes are caught on the way his Adam's apple moves as he swallows, the way his tongue darts out, tempting tease, to lick his lips. "Peter, c'mon, get _up_ here." 

Peter strips with ruthless efficiency, leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor, and crawls onto the bed. He thinks Stiles expects Peter to kiss him, is already moving his head to make it easier for Peter, but Peter opens his mouth and sucks in Stiles' dick. Stiles groans, thighs trembling as he sinks one hand into Peter's hair and holds on tight. Peter breathes in through his nose, gets the full scent of a Spark's arousal straight from the source, and nearly comes. He squeezes one hand around the base of his cock and Stiles says, "Oh god, that's --," cutting himself off with another long, drawn-out moan when Peter relaxes his throat and takes Stiles in to the root. 

It's been a while since Peter's given head but apparently this kind of muscle memory didn't get burned away in the fire, wasn't withered to dust in the coma. It could be Stiles, though, the way that Peter's drawing out all these noises, the way that Stiles tastes, the way that it feels as Peter swallows around Stiles' dick. He thinks he could happily spend the rest of his life here, doing this, and the thought of it has him thrusting into his own fist. His wolf howls, its senses and Peter's blending together, its instincts strong and nearly uncontrollable; the wolf wants to worship the Spark, wants to prove that the Spark has chosen well, that this alpha will serve and please and utterly abase itself for one more stroke of the Spark's hand in its fur, one more glimpse of the bond tying them together, just one more second, one more, one more, _one more_. 

"Okay, okay, enough," Stiles says. Peter would be impressed that Stiles is still able to form words when his own mind is disintegrating into nothing more than want and instinct except that Stiles is telling him to _stop_ , what is he doing wrong? He whines and Stiles jerks, grabs at Peter's hair and yanks. Peter watches Stiles watch him, Peter's nostrils flaring as he can't help but let free a high, plaintive whine, the noise of a wolf wanting to fight but needing to obey. "No, just -- we can -- we've -- Peter, I need you _now_."

Apparently Peter moves too slowly for Stiles' taste because, in the next moment, he's flat on his back and Stiles is pushing him up the bed, enough so that the majority of Peter's legs are on the mattress even though his feet are still hanging off the edge. In all the times Peter's imagined this, he's never once thought that Stiles would be the one manhandling _him_ but the bond's thrumming bright between them, a steady vibration that's knocking all of Peter's thoughts and ability to move loose, out of reach, and all he can do is let the force of Stiles' desperation guide them. 

He's pleased with wherever this is going, bares his teeth in biting glee when Stiles straddles him, howls loud and long as Stiles takes Peter in his hand and guides Peter _inside_. 

"Peter," Stiles breathes, as he works himself open on Peter's dick, hips making little jerking moves as Stiles bends forward, sets his hands on Peter's chest and hooks his nails into Peter's skin. The tang of pain fills the air along with blood from those little half-crescent cuts; it stays as Peter finds himself unable or unwilling to heal, he's not sure, he just wants the _proof_ of this, of Stiles now completely around him, the tight heat of him, Stiles' ass barely open enough but his face giving way to a deep bliss. Stiles has his eyes closed, his head hanging low, and Peter -- Peter can do nothing but lie there, watch, let Stiles take whatever he wants. 

The short, sharp movements turn into longer ones as Stiles steadily starts to open up, as the lube he fingered himself with and Peter's pre-come start to slick the way, and it's not long before Stiles is riding Peter, merciless and greedy as he finds the right angle, arching as he begins to whine as much as Peter, saying "Peter" and "so good" over and over again but not much else. When Peter's able to move enough to thrust up as Stiles grinds down, when he gets a hand around Stiles' cock and starts jerking in rhythm, giving Stiles something to fuck up into it, Stiles moans, " _Alpha_." 

Peter's vision goes red. He can smell them, can smell the way their scents are merging, a little -- Peter's completely and Stiles' only at the top layer but more than enough to display a claim. Unless Stiles chooses to hide their scents, they'll always smell of each other, of what they're doing here and now, and the knowledge of that makes Peter want to call his triumph into the sky. He takes his hand off of Stiles' cock, uses both hands to grab Stiles' right arm, draws his teeth over Stiles' wrist before going up higher onto Stiles' forearm and biting down a little around the vein standing out so clearly. 

"Do it," Stiles says, "Peter, alpha, please, bite me, yours, please," the words repeating over and over again as Peter sucks a bruise onto the tender skin, language turning meaningless in Peter's ears. 

Stiles is close, Peter can tell, and being inside of Stiles when he goes will make Peter come as well. He leaves Stiles to the sex -- Stiles is in control, has been in complete control; Peter's not leaving Stiles to do anything that he isn't already taking for himself -- and scrapes his fangs down Stiles' arm deep enough to leave surface scratches. He watches, fascinated, as the marks start to throb white with Stiles' power, as the magic in Stiles tries to reach onto them and fails, not finding them deep enough to complete the mate bond, needing more blood to finish and tie them than the few drops just now emerging from the split skin. 

He does it once, twice, three times, eyes caught on the visible proof of Stiles' desires, until Stiles lets loose with a snarl any wolf would be proud of. Peter has just enough time to tear his eyes away from Stiles' arm to see Stiles' curl his lip, feel Stiles' hand around his throat, the span of his thumb and fingers enough to press into each side of Peter's neck and digging in so hard that Peter coughs for breath. 

"Don't tease," the Spark orders, still fucking himself on Peter's dick, _using_ Peter, chasing his own pleasure. 

The command echoes in Peter's skull and has him leaning back, giving Stiles the full range of his throat, but is still enough of a plea that Peter's able to say, "Won't," under the pressure. 

Stiles takes his hand off Peter's throat, wraps it around his own dick, keeps his Spark-white eyes fixed on Peter's. Peter moves cautiously, picks up Stiles' arm again, and finally does close his eyes when he sets his teeth to Stiles and _bites_.

\--

The taste is -- there are no words to describe the taste of Stiles' blood. Peter's no doubt sampled it before but now the full breadth of Stiles' magic sings free, flooding through every drop, liquid bursting into Peter's mouth and filling it, knocking his senses sideways as he drinks down a taste so rich and sparkling that Peter knows he's always going to ache for more. Stiles' blood is pure, unbridled power, wild wickedness and ferocious protectiveness made physical and then poured into this body, now being sucked into Peter's mouth and swallowed down, made a part of him, hitting his throat and soaking in until every cell is drowning in it. He never wants to stop, he has to stop, he's had one hit and he'll be addicted past the point of death, until the stars burn out and the end of the universe arrives with shivering cold vengeance. 

Stiles is the one to tear his arm away; Peter chases it, eyes closed, compulsively licking his lips to trace every last molecule. He's not above the level of begging, is close to it, but then he feels the bond anchor, feels it snap tight between them, tie them together. 

"Mine," Stiles says -- and then he comes. 

His climax splatters all over Peter's chest, hits Peter's skin like little drops of burning sunshine, and the smell of it, the feel it, the feel of _Stiles_ , has Peter following his mate -- his _mate_ \-- into orgasm. He thrusts up into Stiles, wants to paint him deep inside, wants to leave a part of himself inside Stiles the way Stiles is inside of Peter now. He's still coming, the last unsteady aftershocks, when Stiles collapses to Peter's chest, giving into the bond and his aching thighs both. He hits with a muffled breath and Peter wraps arms around Stiles, noses at Stiles' hair, does his best to stay inside of Stiles for as long as he can. 

"My Spark," Peter murmurs, running one hand up and down Stiles' back, drawing out pain as he does, the veins in his hand and arm turning a dark grey. "My mate." 

"Yours," Stiles says. "No getting rid of me now, alpha." 

That satisfies the wolf, both Stiles' easy recognition of its status and the contentment wafting off of Stiles as he lies there in Peter's hold, his scent now permanently changed and bleeding off an edge of glee of what they are to each other. It thrills Peter, a darker emotion, more complex than the wolf could understand: he murdered for Stiles but Stiles made it possible; he fucked Stiles but Stiles led the way; he mated Stiles but Stiles wanted it, demanded it, no messing around, no hesitation, nothing but pure focus and need. 

He's thought about this moment, fantasised about it through long, dark, lonely nights, but nothing in his wildest imagination could ever have conjured up this series of events. Their life is going to be like that, with Stiles surprising Peter at every turn, and Peter can't wait to see where it takes them, what Stiles is going to come up with next, what he's going to ask or demand or beg of Peter -- and Peter will give him everything. Stiles doesn't need him but he _wants_ Peter; he will never want for anything else as long as Peter is alive. 

"How are you feeling?" Peter finally asks, when he's slipped out of Stiles and Stiles has rolled off of Peter's chest, has one leg thrown over Peter's and his cheek pressed to Peter's heart. 

"Anchored," Stiles says. "I was right; the mating bond would've been enough. Having a triple bond is -- more than a feast." He pauses, yawns, says, "You feel so _good_ , Peter." 

Peter hums, proud, the wolf settling into a rumbling purr that echoes in Peter's chest, draws a surprised but pleased noise from Stiles. "Can I see it?" Peter asks. 

Their bond shines into sight, the metal thicker than it was earlier, the roses a deeper, more violent red, the barbs and thorns sharper and gleaming now with hungry poison. There are -- the grapevines have sprouted grapes, but grapes made of salt, pink and brown and orange and white. The new additions, the one that takes Peter's breath away, are the pomegranate seeds growing alongside the salt-grapes and the ivy twining in with the grapevine, the bond redolent with ambrosia. 

"Stiles," he says, plucks a pomegranate seed and feels the tug of it in the base of his spine. 

Stiles shifts, says, "Sleep before round two," and Peter takes the opportunity to press the seed into Stiles' mouth. Stiles bites down and leans up, kisses Peter and shares the juice, both of them groaning in unison as the feel of their bond fed back to them goes right to their cocks. 

Peter's a newly-mated werewolf; his refractory period is practically nil right now. There's nothing more he wants to do than get back inside of Stiles, wants to eat the taste of his own come out of Stiles' ass and then replace it with more, wants to lavish his mate with kisses and caresses, fuck Stiles when he's like this, relaxed and languid and loose, and work him back up into active need. He wants to break this fucking bed, soak the sheets with sweat and semen, rub his come into every inch of Stiles' skin and then lick it off, one square inch of Stiles' perfect flesh at a time, cover Stiles in bruises and bitemarks so Peter's claim can be read a thousand different ways, a million different times. 

Stiles is tired, though. His body's probably still trying to anchor itself, still taking in the fact that it _can_. Peter knows that if he made any kind of statement or movement towards requesting more sex, Stiles would pull himself together and join in, even enjoy it, but he's more than half-asleep already and asking Stiles to resist the sweet slide of unconsciousness would be cruel. 

If there's one person on this godforsaken earth that doesn't deserve Peter's cruelty, it's his mate. 

"Go to sleep," Peter tells Stiles, lacing their fingers together, watching as the bond flickers. "I'll keep watch."

Stiles falls asleep. The bond disappears without him awake to maintain its visibility but Peter can feel the weight of it, large and strong and woven thick between them. He closes his eyes, inhales the scent of his mate, thinks about everything yet to come: potentially a meeting with the full Consilium, a visit to Letitia in Dallas, the drive back home, dealing the McCall pack, with Stiles' father, with the nemeton and Deaton and Stiles' mentor. There's going to be so much to do in such a limited time that if Peter was any other wolf and Stiles any other mate, they'd probably decide to never leave this bed. 

Peter is an alpha, now, though, with a wolf currently satiated but soon, he has no doubt, one that will wake up with the second round of mating frenzy roaring through it, clamouring for a pack so he can stake his territory claim, protect his mate, increase his power. And Stiles is Stiles -- a Spark, yes, with connections that Peter doesn't know about and a power that reaches the centre of the universe, but still Stiles, young and determined and now full of an anchored magic that will demand to play, grow, rule as is his due. It's enough to make any man laugh, enough to have any shifter howling its joy across the heavens. 

He opens red-tinged eyes, holds Stiles close. They're not good people, either of them, and the world isn't ready to face them -- but they aren't going to give anyone the choice. Peter grins, then full-out smiles. 

What fun they're going to have.


End file.
